


quia peccavi nimis

by pasdexcuses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: Ten years ago, their world burned. Now, magic is a punishable offense. Someone has to fix it.





	1. prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
>  **Notes:** Thank you to my wonderful betas, ruinsplume and bluelittlegirl! You guys are awesome :)

**prologue.**

He was an orphan barely getting by when someone recommended him for a job at the old palace. He dressed for it, because he wanted to impress, because he knew from experience that life did not grant many opportunities. And when one of them came knocking on your door, you’d better be ready to hold on fast.

His coat had been passed down so many times that second-hand did not begin to cover how old it was. It probably had a hole somewhere. He still took it because any coat was better than no coat in the middle of winter in St Petersburg. Adjusting the cuffs on his shirt one last time, he set out into the cold. He walked with his head held high, one foot in front of the other until he was on the steps of a palace that hadn’t changed much since the revolution. But nothing prepared him for the sight of someone being dragged around the side of the palace by officers in red coats. It was almost a daily occurrence, witch hunters patrolling the streets of St Petersburg in their red coats, arresting people who begged and bargained. It was a mystery to everyone how the New Order was picking out witches and wizards, but every day, someone else went missing.

He himself had been labelled Ordinary, much to the generalised dislike of those around him. Strange things seemed to happen around him. The government, and the restrictions that came with it, brought around shortages that soon turned into great famines. During a particularly harsh winter, the Dursleys who ran his orphanage gave him and a couple of others nothing but bread and water for weeks. One of the others died before spring came, the other was sick for the rest of the year. He, on the other hand, was fine.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the flooding of the house in the middle of summer. The lack of rain meant that the small garden the Dursley kept to help them feed was quickly dying out. This was no one’s fault but the weather’s. Still, the Dursleys saw it fit to blame it on him. He went days without eating, because on the Dursley’s orders, until he could by some miracle revive the plants, he would starve. And then a miracle did happen. Unfortunately, the miracle also flooded half of the Dursley’s orphanage.

Patrols came for him soon after. They, however, found him quite Ordinary, and that was that. There few things he was certain of where his life, past and identity were concerned, but this, he was sure of: he was as Ordinary as the Dursleys. There was no magic in him.

Steeling his nerves, he fixed his eyes back again on the palace. Something about it always felt familiar, though he could never pinpoint what it was. Perhaps it had something to do with those years he seemed to have permanently forgotten. Though he wasn’t the only one with a hazy memory of that night, he was perhaps the only one who wished he could remember in fine detail the events of the night of the fire. The fire that burned down half the city and half its occupants. It should’ve burned the palace before him to the ground, but the palace still stood, too proud to bow.

The revolution came suddenly after the fire. It took over everything and anything that was left in the name of peace and order. It called itself the New Order after it took its seat within the stubborn palace.

It was the New Order who called him to the palace that afternoon. A business opportunity he could not refuse. Not when he was starving half of the time. One foot in front of the other, he walked until he found himself inches from the gargantuan doors.

He inhaled deeply, gave the guard the last name of his adoptive family. He didn’t have a last name of his own, couldn’t remember it. Then the guard motioned for him to follow inside, and he followed in silence.

He had his right shoe inside the palace, his left still outside when the ground began to pull itself apart.

It was a whirl of broken glass and ruined furniture. A blur of someone pulling him by the arm as half the ceiling came down right next to him. A thick layer of dust that made it hard to see. Someone shouting his name. Someone shouting his name followed by a word no one had dared pronounce since the New Order took over: _Potter_.


	2. I.

**I.**

Draco woke up with a start, alone and somewhere dark, a cave. Somehow, he was still alive.

He’d been sleeping for a long, long time, though he’d intended to die. He touched his own face and the rest of his body. It was too dark to see, but he could tell he was nothing but skin and bones and bleeding, infected wounds. He shivered in the freezing cave and noticed the foul smell. It, or rather _he_ , smelled rotten.

He was dizzy all of a sudden, head pounding with flashes of a blaze beyond his control, of screams and shadows that were almost as real as his very existence in this dark place. He clutched at his temple. He knew those were all a lie. Or rather, a terrible memory.

He had come to this cave to die but he hadn’t. He had come to this cave to bleed out and relish in the pain of what he’d done. Because the moment he realised what had happened, it was all beyond his control. His greatest display of magic had quickly become his greatest mistake. It felt like years had passed since then. Years since his fire licked at the walls of half the city, everyone running, screaming.

He, too, had been burned and had the scars to show it. Though his scars were nothing compared to whatever was going on inside of him. Because he had felt the change, something snapping, breaking irreparably as he stumbled on the streets consumed by flames. He’d stared in horror as the flames jumped from the theatre, where it had all started, to the next house over, to the next and the next. And he was too weak to stop it. He would’ve hardly been able to do so had he been strong. His city burned, and it was all his fault.

He felt a pang of pain that had nothing to do with his decaying body and shivered at the memories. He was breathing hard and knew he had to stop. Had to stop thinking about that night, when everything had gone so wrong.

Well, almost everything. There was one thing he did not regret about that night, and it was the death of the Potters. He’d had his revenge. He remembered stepping over James Potter’s body as he rounded on Lily like a snake. She’d been a mother to him, and she’d betrayed him just the same. She stared at him and pleaded for her son. He remembered the younger Potter, too. Seven years his junior and a boy of barely eleven at the time.

Then, he had not thought much of the boy. He had his eyes on his mother, and he would’ve taken her life himself. He had his hand stretched out, ready to take his prize, when his body lurched forward with the force of a dagger stabbing into his back.

Her pleading, green eyes were the last thing he saw before it all went black. Then, he was up in the middle of a street, his chest covered in blood, although the wound was closed. He could hardly breathe through the smoke, could hardly stand in the terrible heat. And as he heard the screams and saw the shadows of his flames, something inside of his body snapped. Something tore at the sight of what he had done.

After, he had come to this cave to die. But he’d survive; something had woken him up, and he needed to know what it was.

So he pushed himself to his feet, then faltered to the ground. His legs were too weak to support him, his arms too feeble to be of much use, his fingers numb. He imagined himself as a corpse falling to pieces and knew he wasn’t too far off. It hardly hurt any more.

Except for his head. He had a feeling his head would always hurt.

He sighed, pushing himself back up. It took all his strength to stand on his two legs longer than a few seconds. And when that failed, again, he sighed.

He considered the possibility of just staying. Of letting himself waste away, his dead body blended into the cold ground. He considered the possibility, but after who knew how long, he found he didn’t want that at all.

He wanted to survive. He wanted to do what so many couldn’t, and live. At least now he knew that much.

After the fire, as he walked in the midst of the wreck, he’d made a promise to never again use his power. But now he wanted to survive. After all these years, he wanted to stay alive.

He flexed his fingers, taking a deep breath. Clearing his head as best as he could, he rid himself of the screams and shadows until the hot, burning flame that was in his head became a tiny spot of light on his palm.

It was the first spell he ever learned.

Leaving the cave required more than one spell; it required patching himself as best as he could. It required making a cane and then a second one because one wasn’t enough for him to support his own weight. Climbing out took hours. He was thirsty, hungry and on the verge of giving up most of the time. But he wanted to survive.

 

The light hit him hard in the eyes. He had to cover his face with his arm, barely avoiding falling down now that he was only balancing on one cane.

It was white, the wind so cold it cut his cheeks. _Winter_ , he thought, lying on his back as it was already getting dark.

He had dreams that night. Dreams of fire and screams and shadows, and underneath it all, there was that smell. Something rotten that wouldn’t let him be.

He was too weak for more magic, and though he forced himself to walk on and on, he had yet to come within sight of a single town. The days were short and the nights were full of things he’d rather not recall. The biting cold scratched away at his feeble skin, each moment that passed stripping away something else. Everything became a blur of white and nightmares, of cold winds chewing his skin and dreams where the world burned.

 

Later, he would remember very little about the moment green eyes hovered over him like a dream he was too afraid of. Later, he would barely remember voices, someone hoisting him up, the warmth that made him shiver to the bones. Someone grabbing his wrist, the contact of skin on skin, and everything changing. Everything set ablaze again, all the memories he’d been trying so hard to freeze for the rest of his life suddenly coming back in a flash so painful his entire world went black.

 

“Are you awake?” a voice asked, a man. “They sent up some soup, if you’re up for it.”

He blinked as his eyes started getting used to the light. He was in a room now, small but warm. He cleared his throat in an attempt to talk but all that came out was the rasp of a dying animal.

“That doesn’t good,” a different voice spoke, a woman this time. “I’ll pour some tea.”

He was in no mood for tea but his body refused to move. Shivering from head to toe, he was so weak he could barely keep his eyes open.

“Here,” the voice said, and a pair of warm hands wrapped around his own.

And there it was again, a pain so unbearable he couldn’t hold the cup offered to him. A sharp pain that made him want to recoil into the very depths of earth.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

The hands were on him again, on his forehead, and this time he couldn’t help it, he let out a hoarse howl.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he managed, seeing that the same hands were seeking him out again.

“We’re just trying to help,” the woman said.

For the first time, he was able to focus long enough to take in his surroundings. And what he saw almost sent him into a screaming frenzy. It couldn’t be. No one had —no one could have survived that night.

Yet here there were, the same pair of bright green eyes that he’d grown so used to seeing every day. The same face that had taken him in and promised him so much. It couldn’t be, yet he was so sure that it was. This man, this man who made him want to die just from his touch, he was one of them. What else could it be?

A Potter in front of him. He swallowed hard. If he’d had half the strength, he would’ve stretched out his arms and wrapped his hands around the man’s neck, hard, hard until he felt the life drain out of this man. Not even when he dragged himself out of the cave had he wanted something this much. He wanted to watch the last of the Potters die.

But then this Potter, who seemed even more impossible than his nightmares, this Potter turned to him and said, “I won’t hurt you.”

He almost broke into hysterical laughter right then and there over the irony of the situation. A _Potter_ telling him he won’t hurt him. The universe making a mockery of his life.

“My name is Harry,” Potter offered, his voice ringing clear through the quietness of the room. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The name made his certainty that the man was a Potter falter for the first time. He took a real look at the man in front of him. He remembered Harry Potter, the young son of a King. But the man standing in front of him was no Crown Prince. Draco knew enough royalty to be able to pick them out of a crowd, and this man was a commoner.

It made no sense. But then the man was touching him again and pain shot through his body, a wave that made his insides crawl up to his throat. He knew, as a calloused hand rested on his shoulder, that this was the pain of a curse. His curse. His murder. He couldn’t doubt himself any longer. The man had to be a Potter. The son of the Potters Draco had known, all those years ago.

He’d wanted so many things, back then. He’d been promised so many things. He thought he could burn the world to ground again for the Potters’ betrayal. He could burn it a hundred times. He could—

“Who are _you_?” the woman asked.

“Black,” he answered after a pause. It was half a lie. “Draco Black.”

He realised, after Potter didn’t even blink, that he’d been expecting to be recognised. Yet, it was plain by the look in their faces that neither Potter nor his companion knew him.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Black,” the woman said.

Potter smiled at him and said, “We found you out in the snow and brought you here.”

“We’re glad to see you awake,” the woman added, “We worried we might’ve been too late.”

He nodded in acknowledgement. So, they had saved his life.

There was no time to process this, for Potter continued, “Were you being chased? Is that why you were out in the snow?” There was seriousness and worry in his voice.

“It’s all right,” Granger reassured him, a hand on his. Her touch was light, warm. Normal. “We won’t tell anyone if you are…” her voice trailed off.

“Different,” Potter supplied.

“We found this lying next to you.” The woman brought out what Draco recognised as a broken piece of his makeshift cane. In a much smaller and careful voice, the woman said, “I can tell this has traces of magic.”

It was clear by the pause that followed that both her and Potter waited for some sort of terrible reaction from him. Draco made no reply. How long had he been in that cave?

“I’m Hermione Granger,” the woman said eventually. “And this is Harry. We’ll be downstairs, if you need anything.”

It struck him, right there and then, that he was at their mercy. His body was too weak to move, his magic too feeble. He wondered what they would do with him, if they knew who he was. Kill him. It was what Draco would do. Show no mercy.

His sleep was restless that night, even more restless that night than when he was first aware of Harry Potter coming to his rescue. Because for the first time since that fire, he could see with stark clarity those green eyes that had promised so much. That had taken so much.

 

He wanted to hate Harry Potter with the same burning zeal with which he’d hated the rest of his family. He wanted to, but Potter smiled too much. He couldn’t forget the gentleness of his touch, even though it hurt to no end. Potter was _kind_.

He remembered Potter as a child, rosy-cheeked and well fed. Their paths had rarely crossed when Draco had been the Court’s Wizard, a mixture of Draco’s own travels and Potter’s tutors keeping him busy. But he remembered the child, running around, laughing.

He had never thought much of the Crown Prince; it hadn’t been his place to concern himself with the son of the King. When he’d stood over Lily Potter, he told her he would to her son as she had done unto him. He hadn’t really expected the young Potter to survive. Then again, he hadn’t expected to survive himself. And now?

He could only see two outcomes for this: either Potter would kill him, or he would die without knowing what Draco did. He wouldn’t choose to fight Potter if he was ever found out. It was Potter’s right to take revenge.

It hit him, as he imagined the moment Potter learned the truth about his parents’ deaths, how badly he wanted to live. He thought of his own parents. The father he’d never known, the mother who’d been murdered when Draco put his faith in the wrong people. She’d wanted him to live, so she sent him away. He wanted to see the world for her, he realised. He wanted a new start. For that, he would need to find his old mentor.

And as for Harry Potter? Well, he would have to try his damnedest to keep him in the dark.

 

Unable to walk more than a couple of steps, he was confined within those four walls until he either got better or someone helped him out. He was far too weak for magic, his body protesting every single time he moved. And then there was the matter of the New Order.

On his second day of confinement, he woke up to the woman reading a paper next to his bed.

“We’re taking it in turns to look after you,” she explained, confirming Draco’s suspicions that she was rather sharp.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, voice still rough.

“Yes, well, someone has to help you change your bandages every day,” she replied, pointing at Draco’s chest. “Those wounds look infected and the smell of them…” She sighed. “It looks like you were days out in the snow.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head sadly at a news item on her paper. “I doubt you’ll be the last one to make a run for it. It’s better if we just stick together.”

“And why is that?”

“Oh, you can stop pretending now,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know that broken cane we found was conjured with magic. You’re like us.”

“Maybe I just found the cane.”

“And were you also stupid enough to carry it with you? Because Ordinaries may have no magic, but they do have enough sense to leave strange objects on their own.” Rolling the paper in her hand, she added, “You don’t believe me? Here.” She handed him the paper. “They’re picking us out like flies. It’s no good to travel alone.” She left him muttering something about needing more bandages.

Unfolding the rolled up pages, the first thing he noticed was the date and he had to force himself to calm down. Ten years of sleep was a long time, no wonder he was in this state.

But the date was not the worst of it. The worst was the news that he had to read twice and then a third time to understand. A lot had changed in the course of ten years. There was a new government and a brand new crime: witchcraft. He scanned the paper for the word, and it came up over and over: an accused would now be sentenced to the gallows for witchcraft. Arrests left and right. But nowhere did it say what the crime meant.

And then he came across a brief paragraph carrying the news that the Abbotts —a family of five with three children, the youngest of whom was not even five years old— had been arrested on charges of witchcraft. And he understood. It wasn’t a crime. It was a persecution. A true witch hunt.

Granger startled him as she opened the door. She noticed the look on his face and said, “You read about the Abbotts? It’s awful.”

Draco was speechless.

“How— how are they finding them?” he asked after a while.

Granger shook her head. “We don’t know. But it’s gotten worse ever since that earthquake hit the palace… Oh, never mind, that,” she said. Then, holding up the bandages in her hand, “Can you sit up?”

He nodded. The bandages came off painfully, the smell of his own body enough to make him sick. The wounds were open and his skin was grey, black in a few places. Granger dabbed a salve on them, her fingers skirting gingerly over the wound. But her touch didn’t hurt him at all.

She changed the bandages on his chest and legs and arms with the precision of someone who’d been trained for this. It was not the first time that it occurred to him to ask about their lives. However, that would lead to them asking about his, and he was still coming up with a new identity for himself.

 

Despite Granger’s suggestions —and later on blatant complaints— that he keep his windows closed to preserve heat, Draco insisted on having them wide open. The smell of rotten animal that followed him around was never as bad when it was far too cold for comfort and air was allowed to circulate freely around him.

His recovery was tedious. After the first few nights, Draco was able to care for his own wounds, and no one came up to his room except to bring him a plate of food. There was a servant girl who brought up a change of linen, twice a week without fault. He sat on a chair as she moved about the room, quietly changing his sheets on Granger’s orders. She was unobtrusive in a way that almost bothered him. He would’ve talked to her —he had talked to her, once, she’d flinched away from him— but he had the feeling he frightened her. Besides, she never lingered more than she needed to and never asked questions that were none of her business. She was, like many other things, a mark of a routine he’d been forced into. Something he never wanted but had to accommodate.

The days waxed away, leaving too much time to think. Thinking was a problem. Because thinking begat memories, which in turn begat regret. He could not talk about his past lest he reveal himself. And he had no use for regret.

His concern that Potter might wake up one day and remember him never materialised. From their short conversations, it was clear he remembered nothing. The orphanage he grew up in after the fire was the only thing Potter ever discussed.

He could tell someone had clued Potter in to his royal past, because whenever the three friends came up all at the same time, they gave themselves away. Pointed stares whenever the New Order was mentioned, a cough whenever someone almost let something slip. But Draco knew enough to fill in the blank for himself.

On his third night, he told them he was a country boy who’d once been sent to work at the palace, when things at home became difficult. It was almost all true. After the fire, he’d found himself odd jobs wherever he could, until recently, when he’d been forced into hiding after being ratted out as a wizard. He made a point of telling them the cane was gift, because it did not fit his country boy persona to be terribly skilled.

As luck would have it, they, too, were hiding. Granger’s parents had been arrested a few weeks ago when she wasn’t home, and the Weasleys had been on the run for years; everyone knew their family had magic. The arrest of Granger’s parents came days before the incident at the palace. They’d found Potter shortly after, and decided to run for it. It was Weasley who almost let it slip that, at the time of the ‘earthquake’, Potter had been standing on the steps of the palace of his youth.

He doubted that had been an earthquake and it worried him. Places could hold strong magic, too. He wouldn’t be surprised if the palace itself had a way of recognising the blood of those who belonged in its royal chambers. And if this were true, then the palace wouldn’t be the only one to know a Potter was alive.

Not for the first time Draco wondered about the faceless person who sat behind the New Order.

 

During his long days with Potter, Granger and Weasley, only a single interesting thing ever happened.

Potter walked into his room to leave a tray on the table on a day the servant girl had come to change the sheets. He’d become so used to her, he almost missed her presence altogether. But he did notice her, noticed how her eyes focused on the pair of them, then on Potter’s face.

“Can we help you with anything?” Potter asked nicely. He smiled at the girl, who blushed and ran off. “Doesn’t talk much, does she?”

“Doesn’t usually stare, either,” Draco commented, frowning at the closed door.

“Really?” Potter asked, surprised. “We had the opposite impression.”

“Is that so.”

He made a mental note to keep a closer eye on the girl, lest she got any grand ideas. Then, he turned to the soup on his tray.

“You know,” Potter said, and Draco realised Potter had been examining him closely, “sometimes, I get the feeling you’re hiding something.”

Draco almost wanted to congratulate him on his instincts. Instead, he replied, “Isn’t everyone?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

 

“So,” Weasley started one late afternoon, “where were you going?”

Draco had had time to consider this question. He knew who he needed to find. If there was any chance his body could be put back together, his old mentor would have the answer. It had been a long time since they’d written to each other, and he had no idea where to find the old wizard. Though, he did know of a place where he might start his search.

“Budapest,” he replied. Then, “I heard some of us have escaped there.”

“Who told you that?” Weasley asked suspiciously.

“A friend asked me, some time ago, to go with him.”

He’d had a friend once, who had wanted him to flee, go fast and get far. But Draco had been too stubborn. He’d believed in too many promises.

“And you didn’t?”

Draco shook his head. The next words left his mouth as though they’d been bursting to get out. “I didn’t want to believe him, when he told me I had to leave.”

It was perhaps the truest thing he’d told the three of them so far. A truth buried so deep within him it surprised him when it crossed his lips.

He heard the rest of them talk about “understanding” and “Budapest”, but they were echoes of something happening far from where he was, caught up in a past that refused to release him.

“Well,” Granger said loudly, “we couldn’t be the only ones to know Budapest is a safe haven.”

Weasley mumbled something, but apparently the decision had been made.

“We’ll go to Budapest together then,” Granger announced, shooting a warning glance at Weasley.

Draco was more than taken aback. “What?”

He had not counted on company for longer than it took for him to recover some of his strength.

“You heard her,” Weasley said. “We’re headed there, too.”

“We want to move soon, take advantage of the long winter nights,” Granger explained. “And you’re still a bit weak, we can’t really leave you here.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Listen to the man, Hermione.”

“We’re all headed there, we can all go together. These are difficult times, Ron. We need to help each other out.”

By the way Weasley rolled his eyes, Draco could tell this was an old argument, one that Granger frequently won.

“I’ll be fine, Miss Granger,” Draco insisted.

But Granger shook her head. “Nonsense, you still limp when you walk.” There was something so commanding, yet motherly about her voice that he couldn’t help smiling despite himself. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile, Mr Black.” Her smile widened. “It suits you.” Weasley went bright red with fury and he opened his mouth to complain but Granger beat him to it, “If no one else has anything else to say. I’d like to get us to look at a few maps.”

As he considered protesting once more, he noticed Potter hadn’t spoken. He’d been examining Draco the entire time, the way he sometimes did.

“Let’s see those maps, then,” Draco said instead and pretended not to notice Potter’s eyes on him as Granger began pointing out several travel routes.

 

He thought about sneaking out in the dead of the night, as he could manage it now. He was far better than he’d ever been and couldn’t help thinking it was thanks to Miss Granger. She had made sure he was fed, that his bandages were clean, and she kept sending up a salve that made his wounds less disturbing.

Hermione was smart and careful, if a little too trusting. Realising he’d grown to like her, he knew he couldn’t repay her kindness by leaving her and her companions the moment they would need him most. He’d guessed enough from the papers he’d been reading to begin to understand the mind that sat behind the New Order. They were bound to know, after what happened to the palace, that a Potter was still alive, and they’d be fools not to have officers guarding every inch of their borders. Hermione and her companions, her fake documents and preparations, would be no match for the New Order, if Draco was right.

No, their separation would have to wait.


	3. II.

**II.**

In the end, they waited a full week to travel. Between the snowfall and Hermione’s need for provisions, the start of their journey kept being delayed. She spent most of the money they had getting them tickets that left from the train station closest to the border, on the other side. It was too risky to be travelling on a Russian train, when officers might be after them. The rest of the money she divided among the four of them equally. The small amount the each received would not go very far, but Draco said nothing as they each went their separate ways.

They were a couple of days’ ride from the nearest train station. He knew just what he would get them; all he needed was a quiet place to make some adjustments. He waited until the other three were well out of sight before walking to a dark corner. He’d been given an old coat, for which Hermione apologised as it was in poor state. He shook his head at it. No one would let him in any shop with that coat.

He knew he was finally strong enough for some magic, and with a tap of his fingers, he spruced up the coat, fixing its holes and making it look newer, shinier. His own clothes were also too old and crumpled, so he tapped his trousers as well as his vest and shirt. There was nothing he could do about the odd stains on his shirt, so he’d have to remember to keep his coat on. He brushed his hair back and adjusted the collar of the coat.

Strolling about the streets, he certainly felt different now. Better, even. So he spent the morning inquiring after anyone selling horses and visiting every possibility. His cheeks were warm with the exercise of walking from one edge of the town to the next one. He breathed easily, and perhaps it was the fact that he had finally had a proper night of sleep, or just the fact that he was by himself and no longer dying, but Draco had not felt this good in a very long time.

He was charming and respectful as he inquired after every horse that was offered to him and made sure he appeared both interested and knowledgeable in the art of horse breeding so as to mask his real reason for prying. It was almost midday when he finally found the right place.

The house, a little cottage a good walk north of the town, was as isolated as everyone in the town had indicated it would be. He only hoped the old woman living there was as hideous as the townspeople had also promised.

“What do you want?” came a hoarse voice after a couple of knocks on the door.

The woman was old and clearly alone. Through the open door, he could see the unkempt state of the cottage. Perfect.

“I’ve been told you’re selling your horses,” Draco said by way of an introduction, his voice velvet-soft.

The woman gave him a once over before saying, “My horses are old. You wouldn’t want them.”

She was shutting the door in his face when Draco put a foot on the threshold.

“I’d still like to see them, if you don’t mind.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I do mind.”

“Come now,” his voice dropped as he placed a hand above hers, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to be rid of those old horses.” He fixed his eyes on her. “I only want to help.”

She blinked blankly at him and nodded, letting him in. She led them through the back into a makeshift stable where there were four horses. They were nothing spectacular, almost too thin and certainly rather old, but they’d have to do.

“I’ll take these three,” Draco announced, pointing at three best-looking animals. Turning to the old woman, he winked. “You can keep the other one.”

She barely nodded before moving to prepare the horses. It took less than ten minutes for her to hand over three sets of reins, no questions asked.

“Hold on a minute,” Draco said. “I ought to pay you first. Shall we walk back inside the house?” The woman turned to the horse, but he quickly added, “Leave the horses here, I’ll come back for them when we’re done.”

She followed him back inside to the little kitchen where there was an old table.

“I know it isn’t much,” Draco began, emptying his pockets and handing her all the coins Hermione had given him. “But I doubt you’ll even remember you had four horses instead of just the one.”

Sighing, he looked around the place. It really was terribly disheveled, and he was all but robbing the poor woman.

“Here,” he said, tapping the wooden table.

An invisible wave of something rippled through the old house, and with that, Draco was gone.

Even from the outside it was noticeable that something about the cottage had changed. It looked less crooked, less worn down. And if inspected closely, anyone would see that the places where the wood had once been rotting had been replaced by shiny new pieces.

The old woman did not immediately notice any of this. She, like every other townsman and woman who’d run into the tall, blond stranger, just stood there for a good half an hour, looking vacantly at nothing. And when she finally shook herself out of her stupor, she, too, had the odd feeling she was forgetting something.

 

“I found us horses,” Draco whispered as they all sat down for a very plain lunch.

“How!” Weasley exclaimed.

“Keep your voice down, Ron,” Hermione chastised him. “But, really, horses?”

“Yes,” Draco answered nonchalantly. “An old woman living alone was quite happy to have me taking them off her hands. Couldn’t care for them herself anymore.”

He caught Potter’s frown out of the corner of his eye but before anyone could inquire further, Weasley threw himself into an exorbitant boast about how he’d bartered for a rather impressive amount of food.

They’d each managed to find something useful in the town, some food to last a few days and thick, wool blankets that smelled old and used, but that would prove immense help once they set off into the countryside in the middle of winter.

They paid for their food and stood up to leave. Hermione and Weasley walked out first but Potter hung back to grab Draco by the shoulder, holding him back.

“You fixed the holes in your coat?” he asked, his thumb right where a previous hole had been.

“I’m good with my hands,” Draco replied.

“Excellent,” Potter agreed. “I mean, if I didn’t know any better, I would say the fabric had never been torn.”

He could tell Potter was scrutinising him, and of all the things to give him away, he could not believe his mistake was going to be a bit of sewing. Sure, he’d returned the coat to its previous, miserable state except for the holes. He wasn’t about to get half frozen to death again. Though perhaps, even this bit of magic was too much for the country-boy-with-useless-magic he was pretending to be.

“I’ve worked many jobs and served many masters,” Draco said carefully, extricating Potter’s hand. “You pick up all sorts of odd skills like this.”

“You’ll have to tell me one day,” Potter said, and there was something new in his voice, a hint of something dangerous that had never been there before. “About all these jobs, I mean.”

“Boring stories,” he replied, waving his hand to emphasise his stories meant nothing.

“On the contrary. I think they sound rather interesting.”

“Maybe later.” He turned his attention to the street where Weasley and Hermione were waiting for them. “We’ll have more time after we leave this place.”

“I’ll hold you that, Mr Black,” Potter said, but he stepped aside to let Draco lead the way.

 

They were leaving that very same night. It was a good 150 miles to the border of the Empire and then another thirty to their train station. At best, it was two-day journey under the current weather, perhaps even more. Hermione gave them a good deal of instruction before they left, spreading out a map of the area, outlining their route and alternative paths to their train. She pointed out the woods near the border, and told them it was a good way out, but to be careful. There were too many clearings that could put them in a tight spot.

Before they left, she handed each of them a small bag with what she called essentials. Draco’s had food, bandages and, most surprising of all, a pistol.

“One shot each,” Hermione explained when all three of them found themselves staring at her, “couldn’t afford any more.”

“Hermione, we’ve got magic,” Weasley said, in a tone that said he was pointing out something rather obvious.

“And that’s the problem,” she replied. “We’re about to cross the border and, chances are, they have officers checking documents and looking for someone suspicious.” She looked at them, nodding in approval before continuing, “I reckon we look harmless enough, but if anything happens, do not use magic. That’s what the pistols are for. In case of emergency.”

“But—”

“No, Ron,” she cut in, “none of you have been to the border. You don’t know what it’s like. We will not stand a chance if they find us out.”

This, at last, made Weasley stop arguing.

“So, we’re all clear on the plan?”

They nodded.

There was a sense of foreboding in the air as they finally left the cottage behind. Hermione was restless, foot tapping the floor relentlessly as the rest of them readied the horses. Weasley would ride with Hermione, while Draco and Potter had a horse each. They mounted, nodded at each other and set off in the night. The wind roared around them as they rode to their first stop.

 

They rode like that for a day and a half, stopping once for sleep in the middle of an empty field and thrice on the road to water their horses and have some food. On their second night, they arrived in a town close to the border. Hermione had saved some money for one last night at an inn. They got in late and made plans to leave before dawn, which would only give them a couple of hours.

The money was only enough for a single room with four, tiny beds. It would have to suffice, he thought, leaving his bag at the foot of the cot closest to the window. All tired from the journey and knowing they still had some twenty miles ahead of them in the morning, they lay down without so much as a ‘good night.

Draco lay awake on his bed. He didn’t like this town and had insisted they ride around it, not even go through it, but everyone else had been too tired. It was the last Russian town before the border, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for them.

The night was too quiet and still, reminding him of a wolf before it pounced. He’d been out of the game for a while —he’d _failed_ at playing the game his last time around— but he could still recognise a threat from miles away. The air changed, became heavy and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Tonight had the distinct smell of violence.

Weasley’s snores came eventually, followed quickly by Potter’s steady breathing. Only Hermione could be heard tossing in her bed. Draco considered engaging her in conversation. To say what, though. He couldn’t say too much, couldn’t give her too many tips on how to face what almost certainly lay ahead, or he would likely expose himself. Hermione was too sharp for her own good, and if anyone in that room had any chance of properly identifying him, it was Hermione Granger.

In the end, it was she who broke the silence first, “Draco,” she called in a small voice, “are you awake?”

He thought about keeping silent, but then answered, “Yes.”

“I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow and the border. I know it’s not the most popular place. Ron reckons there might not even be officers patrolling.”

“I don’t think foolishness suits you, Miss Granger.”

“I know,” she whispered after a thick pause. “It’s what I’d do. I’d post officers along every border, no matter how unlikely. But still, they have no way of knowing. I mean, unless one of us is forced to—”

“Or stupid enough to try,” Draco added, glancing sideways at the beds where Potter and Weasley slept. He wouldn’t put it past either of them to do something rash and idiotic.

But making them perform magic wasn’t the only way to be discovered, and whoever controlled the New Order likely knew this much. Otherwise, how was it possible for their witch hunt to be as successful as it was?

He’d been thinking about this for a while. A part of him wanted to believe the New Order wasn’t using lonsdaleite. However, the accuracy with which real witches and wizards were being plucked out… It was very simple, really. And since virtually nobody knew about it, why would anyone object to a single prick to the finger. A single prick that would show a wizard or witch for who they truly were.

He was almost certain lonsdaleite was how the New Order was taking out witches and wizards, left and right. He struggled to make out Hermione’s face in the dark, trying to decide whether to tell her or not.

Before he could make up his mind, however, he saw the light of a gas lamp suddenly illuminating the street outside the inn. So, they’d found them. How had they—?

The servant girl.

“Miss Granger, I never did say goodbye to that girl who attended to me,” he said, his words fast and calculated. “I don’t think I saw her when we left.”

“No,” Hermione replied, confused. “What does that—”

“I wonder, what ever happened to her?”

“She said she needed to go into town that afternoon, had to send a letter.”

Of course. That settled the matter. The people outside were no ordinary people. The girl had given them away, and now officers were here for them.

He listened closely to the noises outside, waiting for the brief confirmation of his worries. He didn’t want to give himself away unless it was absolutely necessary. Then the door of the inn opened with a creak.

Hermione jumped. “What was that?”

“Hermione, listen to me,” Draco said in earnest, rolling out of bed. Taking the pistol out of his bag, he stuffed it into his sleeve. “I’ve heard stories about how they identify _us_.”

 “ _What_?” she asked, now out of bed, too.

“What’s going on?” he heard Weasley ask, but Draco had his focus on Hermione.

“Ask questions later, but listen.” He grabbed her by the arms, willing her to understand. “If they have a crystal dagger, they know what we are.”

“But I have forged—”

“They won’t matter—”

“They can’t take us,” she insisted.

The stairs squeaked ominously. Step, step, step.

“Listen!” Draco demanded. Hermione was shaking. “If they have that dagger, we have to run. They cannot catch us.”

“Hey!” Weasley said, now fully awake, too and walking towards them. “Get your hands off her!”

“Ron?” Potter said, awake, too. “What is it?”

“But—” Hermione began, her eyes searching Draco’s face.

She couldn’t get the words out before there was a knock at their door. She turned on her heels, her face terrified. Her face was illuminated as she opened the door. “Yes?”

An officer in a red coat pushed the door open all the way, forcing Hermione to step aside. He glanced at the four of the under the dim light of his lamp. “Come outside with me,” he ordered.

“Why?” Weasley asked. “We have our documents here, if you wish to see them.”

“Outside,” the officer ordered again. “Bring all your belongings with you.”

“No,” Potter said. “We’ve done nothing.”

The officer looked at him. “You’ve been accused of something, so you will come with us for an explanation.”

“And if we don’t?” asked Potter, the idiot.

“We will take you by force,” the officer replied. “Even if it means destroying this inn.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.” The officer stepped closer to Potter, his lamp tilting dangerously next to the bed where Potter had been sleeping.

His heart pounded in his chest. He could see the flame rising and flickering, rising higher and flickering as it tilted closer to the linen. Closer, closer still.

“We’ll come with you,” Draco said abruptly, his entire body numb. Something burned in the back of his mind, and he had to make a great effort to sound calm. “As we’ve told you, we’ve done nothing. I’m sure all matters will be cleared in no time.”

The officer snarled at him before motioning them to follow him. They picked their bags and walked out, one by one. He held Hermione back to whisper in her ear. “Remember, if you see a dagger—”

“We run,” Hermione finished for him.

He could tell she was steeling her nerves and was glad to see she was smart enough to see their situation had drastically changed.

They followed the officer through the back door of the inn, where they had left their horses earlier. Nothing less than a small troop of officers was waiting for them a little further than the dark street. They had a few horse themselves and pack of hunting dogs.

This would not be an easy escape.

“Documents,” the officer who had come for them barked.

Hermione handed over all their documents. Her hand trembled slightly, though she was not looking at the officer anymore. Draco followed her gaze and landed his eyes on the dogs in front of them. Some of them were so big they more closely resembled wolves than pets, their teeth glittering yellow.

“Motive for travel?” the officer asked.

“Holiday,” Weasley answered.

“Where?” the officer asked, then frowned. Before anyone could answer, he said, “Mr Shunpike and Mr Shunpike?” He stared from Weasley to Potter then back down at their papers.

The plan had been to have those two be cousins while Hermione was Weasley’s wife and Draco a family friend.

“Cousins,” Weasley replied by way of an answer.

“Is that so?” the officer asked, his voice becoming silkier with every word. He drew out a set of papers from his red coat and began flipping pages. Then his lips turned up into an unpleasant curve. He said, “A woman traveling with three men, where have I read that before? Green eyes?”

Draco saw the colour draining from Hermione’s face. It was all the warning he needed. She had her eyes fixed not on the officer’s face but on something on his fastened on his waist. Lonsdaleite.

He looked around at rest of the officers surrounding them. Their horses were still tied down, but he saw no other way. He stepped closer to where they were, as close as he could until the officer shot a glare at him.

The officer snarled at them before announcing, “You’ll have to come with me.”

“If you’ll allow me,” Draco said, reaching into his sleeve, “I have something here that might clarify this situation.”

He did not give the officer any time to respond as in one swift move he took out his pistol and shot him in the head.

There was a moment’s confusion as he yelled, “Weasley, our horses, now.”

And while everyone else was looking the other way, he uncurled his fingers and cast a shield strong enough to hold for a moment or two. He looked down at the officer and took the dagger from him one quick movement.

Weasley, who’d been standing rather perplexed at the sound of the first shot fired, was surprisingly fast in getting to their horses before any other officer knew what was going on. He helped Hermione up while Draco finished freeing their horses. Potter was quick on the uptake and mounted his horse just as Draco did the same.

What happened next came in a blur. The shield Draco cast came down and everything became a haze of shots fired at them, commands being shouted, the loud barking of dogs now after them, the biting cold cutting his face.

They rode fast out of that wretched town, and when they finally reached open countryside, they made a break for the woods. They hadn’t planned this, but he remembered Hermione’s map and knew Hermione was thinking the same thing; the woods were their best shot at survival now. They were also his best chance to use his own kind of magic without raising too many alarms.

When the trees came within sight, he broke off into a different direction, heading east while the other three headed west. He heard someone call after him, but he rode on, knowing it was best for him to be alone.

The shots followed him well into the forest. As the tree trunks thickened, the noises that followed him became shallower and shallower.

He left the horse somewhere along the way, well-aware that he was still being chased. He walked rapidly at first, trying to shake loose the officers after him. Taking sharp turns and diving into a near-frozen stream, his steps were as light as he could manage. It wasn’t long before he knew he was alone again. The air was clear and cold as he closed his eyes and took it all in. The time had come for his own hunt.

He made his way through the trees like a spirit through the night, picking up a couple of rocks that he sharpened and used to mark his path on tree trunks. His feet were so light on the ground he might as well have been floating. How different things were now he’d healed some, his old strength slowly making its way back into his body.

He’d been taught tracking and the ways of woods and rivers and lakes before he’d been taught how to use spells, and he could tell by the trees the moment he drew nearer to his goal. They were beginning to thin out again, spaces that were once tight became ample. The hunt was almost over, he thought.

He felt a presence close to him and knew it was time to pick up his pace. He ran, not trying to shake off anyone this time around. He ran in a straight line until he reached the very centre of the small clearing. As the officers after him started appearing from the woods, one by one, he straightened his back and focused his mind.

“You’re surrounded!” one of them shouted.

Technically, Draco supposed he was. “Come closer,” he said, his voice velvet-soft.

The officer in charge stepped forward. He didn’t come too close, just close enough to hear Draco.

“Tell me, officer, do you believe I have magic?” he asked.

“A trial will determine that,” was all the answer he received. “Surrender now, and your sentence might not be too harsh.”

“But if I am found to have magic, would it not stand to reason that my sentence would be death? Regardless of the fairness of your trial,” Draco countered.

“Is this a confession?”

“No, merely an observation. Come closer, officer, raise that lamp of yours so I can see you properly.”

The officer’s feet shifted. Good.

“Not interested?” asked Draco. “Afraid I might be a match for you? _All_ of you.”

At this, the officer regained some composure and snorted. “All thirty of us? No one has that kind of power.”

While in the woods, he’d considered conjuring up a blizzard to disappear. But now, as he raised his hands, palms facing the sky, he felt a first pulse of real magic. The first in years. And his mind forgot what it’d previously decided. It was plagued with shadows and an anger so deep it soaked through every fibre of his being.

He felt a second wave, looked at the officer and broke into a smile so full of thirst that it had the officer taking an involuntary step back.

“I’m just trying to help you live a little longer,” Draco said, advancing.

“You better not try anything,” the officer took another step back, “my men are well-trained.”

“I will count to three, how does that sound?”

He was thirsty for this and did not even want the officers to leave.

“One,” he said, flexing his fingers.

Ten years he’d gone without most of his magic.

“Two,” he said in a singsong.

His palms were hot now, a heat that threatened to escape, out of control through his very skin.

“Come on,” Draco continued, “you really don’t want me to get to…”

The second in time that followed stretched out its limbs until it felt longer than eternity itself. It gave the officer enough space to give his signal. It gave Draco enough time to say “ _three_.”

Then that same second contracted and time sped up, and before thirty bullets had the chance to leave their firearms, Draco had snapped a thread of biting, cutting air around thirty necks.

They bled out before him, moonlight illuminating the red that marred the snow.

He breathed out, flexing his fingers until they felt cold again.

Then, without warning, his body was emptying the entire contents of his stomach on the snow. If it hadn’t been for a breeze that struck him on the face, he would not have realised he’d started crying.

 

He wiped his face on his sleeve and stared up at the sky. It was late.

Stealing a horse, he made his way fast across and out of the woods. He’d come out on the wrong end, which meant he was about twenty miles away from the train. He had to be there before sunrise if he wanted to be on his way out of the Empire for good. This was his only option, now, as he doubted the thirty murdered officers he’d left behind would get him in anyone’s good graces in this land.

He had made good progress by the time the horizon had started turning orange. He was already on the edge of the small forest that stood between him and that train. That was when he heard the shots.

Slowing the pace of his horse, he entered the woods. It was a good bet one of the other three was still being chased.

This forest was small, very small compared to the previous one, and it was not hard to get close to the shots quickly. Again, he was forced to leave his horse in order not to be heard, all the while worrying he was not going to make it to that bloody train.

It was getting light fast when he saw the body. An officer, gunned down. He found tracks close by, and a few feet ahead, he saw an abandoned horse, which pulled him to a stop. Someone else had had the sense to go on foot, which meant he’d have to be more careful.

As he went further, he found fresh blood on the trees, enough to point to a serious wound. This was not looking good.

He followed the trail of blood, all the way to end of the woods, where it ceased rather abruptly.

He felt the rustle of leaves behind him next. It could be the wind. Or—

Someone lunged at him from a tree. He reacted instantly, stumbling and almost falling on his back. In the time it took him to regain his balance, he was pushed up against a tree, a blade to his neck. The officer was pressing the point so hard against Draco’s skin that he drew a single drop of blood.

“Oh,” he said into Draco’s face, “you’re all mine now.”

But before the blade could get any closer, Draco picked up a rock and smashed it against the officer’s head, effectively knocking him out. He heard another noise and was about to throw the rock at it when Potter came into view.

He was panting, leaning heavily on his left side. “I was coming to your rescue,” Potter said, then trailed off, gesturing at the scene in front of him.

He was covered in dirt and what looked like dried blood. Red drops were dripping from his clothes onto the snow.

What happened next, happened in a flash. He saw a shape moving from behind Potter, charging at him. Draco moved without thinking, without meaning to, and accidentally took a bullet for Potter. It hit his shoulder, making him stumble.

“Draco!” Potter shouted as he raced to him.

For a moment, Draco could not believe what he’d done. But then the officer who’d shot him from his horse was aiming at them again.

“Get down!” he shouted as another shot was fired at them.

He jumped at the body of the officer he’d knocked out, took the firearm at his belt and aimed. It was simple luck that he managed to hit the officer and throw him off his horse.

Wasting no time to check who was alive and who wasn’t, Draco took hold of the horse before it ran away and mounted it. He hated to admit it, but he needed help. He knew the second he swung his leg across the horse’s back, the dizziness that overcame him was almost strong enough to have him passing out. He was barely keeping his eyes open, the pain in his shoulder nothing to pain in his entire body. It had been reckless to use that much magic in his current state. He wasn’t even sure he’d make it to the train on his own, but he had no choice.

Trying not to think too hard about it, he held out his hand to Potter.

 

Hermione and Weasley were already waiting when they arrived, just in time to board the bloody train. Draco’s vision was blurry as he dismounted and stumbled to the ground. He was starting to see black spots where the sky should’ve been, his body was swaying, and then everything went black.

 

What felt like a second later, he woke up with a start. He was lying on his back and breathing hard, mind racing, when he realised Hermione was hovering over his chest. He’d been stripped of his coat and shirt and the only thing between his body and everything else was a thin undershirt that was bloody around the shoulder.

“What in the heavens—” he started.

But Hermione beat him to it. “The good news is there is an exit wound.”

“Fantastic,” Draco replied.

“Just stop moving,” she hissed, examining the wound.

The cloth Hermione pressed to his shoulder was dampened with something foul-smelling. It stung and made him bite the back of his hand. He was about to push Hermione off him, yell at her for good measure, but when the cloth was removed, there was a scar in place of the previous open wound.

“You should rest,” she said, dusting off her hands. “We’ll stay here for the night.”

It was then that Draco was able to take in everything else around him. They were not, as he’d expected, on a train.

“What happened?” he asked, sitting up.

“We decided the train was too risky,” Weasley explained, clearly still not peace with this decision.

“They would’ve been able to guess, if they didn’t already know, which train we’d take,” Hermione interjected, her voice a little exasperated.

“You can’t run after a train, Hermione.”

“But you can post an officer at every stop.”

“So what, you think they’d post officers all over the continent?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “This is safer.” She looked from Draco to Potter sitting beside him, still silent. Then she stood up abruptly, grabbing her bag. “I’m going for a walk, see if I can’t find some berries, or something we can eat other than bread and cheese.” She turned to Weasley, who had been settled comfortably on the ground. “Ron, come with me.”

“Can’t it wait? It’s too dark, anyway.”

“Ron.”

“Fine.”

And with that, they left.

“That was subtle,” he murmured after Hermione and Weasley.

Then the world was silent but for the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

He thought Hermione very pointedly leaving them alone had been rather pointless, when Potter blurted, “You saved my life.” Draco was about to say that it had not been on purpose when Potter followed that first statement with, “I owe you my life.”

“If I remember correctly,” Draco said, calculating his words, “you dragged me to safety when I passed out on the snow. You could say we’re square.”

Potter shook his head stubbornly. “You took that bullet for me.”

“It barely grazed me.”

“Hermione said if you’d been shot two inches to the left, you’d be dead.”

“And if that officer had shot two inches to the right, we wouldn’t even have to have this conversation.”

“But he didn’t.”

“And so here we are. What is your point?”

Potter remained silent for a moment. Then, “When we rescued you last month, I saw your body on the snow first.” He said it like it was a confession, a dirty secret. “We were in a carriage and we almost rode right past you. But I saw you.”

“Then I suppose I really did owe you my life,” Draco said, in an attempt to end the conversation.

“You were barely conscious, eye half closed and everything,” Potter continued as though he couldn’t hear Draco. “I grabbed your shoulders, I was trying to wake you up. And for a second you opened your eyes and looked right at me. I could’ve sworn you knew me. Could’ve sworn we’d met before.”

This was no good, Draco thought. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t remember any of it.”

“Of course,” Potter replied. “I never expected you to. I just…” His voice trailed off and under the dim light of the moon, Draco could tell his cheeks were flushed. “Have you ever been absolutely sure of something even though you had no proof? As if… As though you can feel it, under your skin. You feel it and you just know.” He shook his head again. “Forgive me, this all sounds silly, even to me.”

Draco couldn’t help himself. He was saying the words before he knew which way was up and which was down. “And this happened when you met me?”

“Yes,” Potter replied, relief spreading across his face. “I just knew we were destined to meet.”

 _Again_ , Draco added in his head. Destined to meet _again_.

“Did you…?” Potter couldn’t finish his own question, but Draco knew what he meant.

“I’ve never believed in fate,” he lied.

Potter’s face fell. “Oh.”

And to Draco’s immense surprise, he found himself apologising.

“No, it’s not your fault,” Potter added quickly. “I knew it was silly from the start.”

But it wasn’t. He remembered how Potter had known he was hiding something; how he’d known they’d met before.

“You should trust your instincts more,” he said, because it was true.

“My instincts?”

“They’re good,” Draco said, not really understanding why he was doing this. All he knew was that it felt right.

And then Potter smiled at him. A devastatingly true smile that made his insides churn with something entirely unfamiliar.

“Hermione’s right,” Potter said at last. “If you’re being this nice to me, then you must really be tired.”

He made a move to leave, and Draco let him go, staring at the spot he vacated.


	4. III.

**III.**

Dusk found them in the same spot, discussing their next move.

Weasley was devouring some of the berries he and Hermione had actually managed to find the night before.

“Do you think they’ll come after us?” Weasley asked around a mouthful.

Hermione’s eyes shifted to Harry for a brief moment. “They had our description. Remember what the officer said? ‘A woman travelling with three men’?”

She completely skipped over the fact that those officers had a rather accurate description of Potter. And if they had Potter’s description, they would not stop looking, even after they crossed the border.

“But would they have any way of knowing where we’re headed?”

He thought of the servant girl. “They might. But Budapest isn’t Russia.”

“No,” Hermione agreed, though she still seemed unconvinced.

“We’ll just have to be more careful from now on,” Weasley piped, swinging an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “We can move around the countryside, it’s not like we’ve got money to spend in towns, anyway. And I have people waiting for us in Budapest.”

“Yes, you’re right. And I suppose it’ll give us a bit more time, too.” Hermione looked deep in thought for a moment. Then, she said, with an air of finality, “And we’ll have to do something about that description they’ve got.”

“A bit more time for what?” Potter asked.

“Well, you have,” Weasley shot a glance at Draco, “ _stuff_ to learn, Harry.”

“And while we’ve got time,” Hermione added, and she too turned to Draco, “why don’t we start with you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Hermione,” Potter said placatingly, and if _he_ was defending Draco…

“No, Harry,” Hermione went on, “he knew about that dagger. He knows more than he’s letting on.”

“I told you, I was warned about the daggers.”

“Oh, really? That’s a terribly specific warning,” Hermione insisted.

“It’s a terribly specific practice,” Draco countered.

“And what, exactly, is this practice supposed to be?”

“I don’t know what they do with it,” he answered, and it was true enough. He had a good guess at what they did with it, but it was still technically a guess.

“What is it made of?” She pressed. “Ice? Diamonds?”

Draco shook his head. “No idea. But,” he said, taking out a shining crystal from his pocket, “we might find out.”

“How— How did you get it?”

“I shot that officer, remember?”

“But there was no time, we—”

“I stole it,” Draco interrupted, “because I think we need to know what this really is.”

And he meant every word he said. He needed to know if he was guessing right. There were a handful of people who would know about lonsdaleite.

“Well,” Hermione started, taking the dagger in her hand, “what do you think it does?”

“Just touching it doesn’t do anything, does it?” Weasley said, taking the dagger from Hermione.

He passed it along to Potter, who examined it, but came up with nothing.

“It’s a dagger,” Draco reminded them, because the answer was obvious.

Hermione’s eyes bulged. “But what would cutting people accomplish!”

“I guess we’re about to find out,” Potter spoke, and before anyone could process his words and stop him, he took the dagger and slit open his own palm.

The blade remained sheer crystal but Potter’s blood was trickling down his arm and blue.

Hermione gasped, “Harry! Your blood!”

But Potter had already noticed the unnatural blue against his skin. “Bandage?” he asked, quite stunned to say anything else.

This made Hermione snap to attention and she fetched the same foul vial she’d used to close Draco’s wound earlier. “Here,” she said, handing over the vial, “just a couple of drops.”

Like Draco’s, Potter’s cut healed in a moment, a thin scar forming in seconds. But Draco had focused his attention on the drying blue blood. So it was lonsdaleite. He wondered how suspicious they’d get when he explained the whole thing. It was a necessary evil; they had to be prepared, in case they had another run-in with those officers.

He was about to explain, when Weasley said, “I think I know what that is.”

All of them stared at him.

“I can’t… I can’t believe it’s real but…” his voice trailed off.

“And you never thought of telling us.”

“It was supposed to be a folk tale, Hermione!” Weasley said defensively. “Just a legend, nobody believes it’s real. But… I mean, I guess it is.”

“And what is it?”

“I don’t know the name, I only know the story!”

“Then tell us the bloody story, Ronald,” Hermione all but cried in exasperation.

“All right, all right.” Weasley cleared his throat. “Well, Mum used to tell it to me before bed when I was little, you know, one of those old tales from the countryside about the start of everything. Well, the start of us, you know, of magic.”

“Get on with it, Ron.”

“Right. I can’t remember the whole thing and I can’t tell it to you the way she did, but the gist of it is:

“Before, there was a barren land and a wandering tribe. It was winter, and they were starving to death. All, but the leader, who remained strong by forcing everyone around him to bring food and water to his warm hut.

“On the brink of extinction, the tribe sent prayers up to the sky and slaughtered the few animals that were still alive. But they starved still. Then one night, a dying woman went to the edge of a frozen river. Across the river, there was a wall of rock, and on the rock were tiny crystals, glittering in the moonlight. She crossed the river and touched her hand to the glittering rocks. One of them came free with ease; popped from the rock and into her hands, already sharp as a blade.

“The following night, the dying woman took her three children with her across the frozen river. She kissed all three heads before she explained what would happen next. She would kill herself, and they would take everything from her, from her hair to her boots. She told them to take everything and run far away to find a new place where their leader wouldn’t find them. For even corpses belonged to him and his fat belly.

“The children protested but she shook her head. She was dying, and her children wouldn’t be long for this world after she passed unless they fled. She took the oldest’s face in her hands and willed her daughter to understand. It was the only way to survive. The daughter cried but nodded.

“The woman put the blade to her neck and, with a swift movement, cut herself. She felt her blood, hot on her skin as she brought her fingers to her slit throat. Even dying was painfully slow in this winter, and she had time to see that the blood on her fingers was turning blue under the moonlight. She moved without thinking, a voice in her soul telling her what to do.

“She placed her bloody fingers on each of the three foreheads of her children, marking them as hers. She barely managed to get to her third before collapsing to ground, her life extinguished.

“The eldest daughter gave a piercing cry, but the river was far away from the wandering tribe, and the rock even further. She closed her mother’s eyes and took the crystal from her hand. Take everything, the mother had said. But when the girl held the blade in her hand, something changed. A voice spoke to her and told her to cup her hands next to the wall of rock.

“She did and instructed her other siblings to do the same. Slowly, water trickled down from nowhere, warm sweet water that the daughter brought to her lips and drank. She was no longer cold, no longer hungry. And, she was different. She could feel it in her bones; something had changed. She felt she could will the snow to go away with a flick of her wrist, so she tried. To her surprise, a patch of snow in front of her cleared. She knew then that she could will water, air, fire and earth to bend to her wish. But she was smart enough to keep quiet, smart enough to take her two siblings and run far away.

“Wandering, the three siblings discovered and trained themselves in magic. For years they travelled until the time came to return to the barren land they’d left. Once more, it was covered in snow, but things had changed. The eldest daughter was now a mother herself, and they were no longer three wanderers but many more.

“News of a flourishing tribe up north spread like wildfire, and soon, the daughter was not only mother, but leader, too. She was fair and kind, and her tribe grew into a small town that later flourished into a small kingdom, full of thriving magic. She kept her mother’s crystal until her dying day, when she passed it down to her heir.”

Weasley cleared his throat. “And there’s something else, too. A rhyme mum used to say:

_Her dagger will spill royal blood again_

_Its wielder shall have great power_

_Until royal blood reclaims it for itself_.”

And with, Weasley looked around everyone else.

It was Hermione who spoke first, arms crossed above her chest, “Why did you never tell us that story before?”

“It’s supposed to be just a story, a folk tale, I told you.”

“But I’ve never heard of it.”

“You grew up in the city, it’s a country folk tale for the superstitious. Your tutors wouldn’t have told you anything like that. It’s a bit gruesome, if you ask me.” Weasley shook his head in what Draco could only assume was disapproval. “A mother killing herself.”

“Well, it was her sacrifice that gave them magic, wasn’t it?” Hermione said. Then, “So the crystal in the story—”

“Is the crystal dagger we have,” Potter finished for her.

“Well, maybe not that exact one,” Hermione countered. “But perhaps same material?” She shook her head at this. “I just don’t understand, what _is_ it? I know I don’t bleed blue if I cut myself with anything else, I would’ve noticed by now. Although… It might be a reaction that our blood has to the material. I wonder what it is…” Hermione turned abruptly to Draco.

He’d remained silent the entire time they were figuring out the connection between the blade and the story Weasley had just told them. It wouldn’t do for him to accidentally show he knew too much.

“Do you know anything else?” Hermione asked, eyes narrowed.

“No,” Draco lied. “But I know someone who might.”

“And where is that someone?”

Draco shrugged. “No idea. Haven’t heard from him in ten years.”

“You don’t mean Dumble—”

“Ron!” Hermione shrieked.

But the damage was done. Draco could only stare at them, stunned. He’d known they had plans for Potter, had guessed that was why they were headed to Budapest, to make contact with other wizards. His next guesses were less certain: there was a fair chance that they were gathering support for a revolution, with the last of the Potters at its head. But for Dumbledore to be involved as well.

A part of Draco was chastising himself for being surprised. He hadn’t known whether Dumbledore was even alive. Yet the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He’d witnessed Hermione’s and Weasley’s magic, and though it was nothing to be ashamed of, especially not in times when persecution made everything three times as hard, it hardly explained how they’d found Harry. But they hadn’t really found him, had they? He’d shown himself to them the moment he walked on the palace steps. And no one knew more about this kind of ancient magic than Dumbledore. Of course, he thought. It all made sense now.

So they were looking for Dumbledore, too. Well, Draco supposed his old mentor always did have his fingers in many pies.

He realised belatedly that the conversation had gone on without him. Hermione and Weasley were already bickering about who knew what. He couldn’t be bothered with it anymore, so he said.

“I don’t know who that is,” he lied again, “but the person I know is a wizard by the name of Zabini. He was the friend who first warned me to leave. He seemed to… know things.”

“I don’t know about this Zabini person,” Hermione said, clearly not really believing Draco. She took the blade, examining it closely. “But I think this means something,” she added. “I think finding this Zabini is worth a shot.”

“He might lure us into a trap,” Weasley pointed out reasonably, gesturing at Draco.

“ _He_ ,” Potter started defensively, “saved my life.”

His words did what no word out of Draco’s mouth could have done. She and Weasley exchanged significant looks, but Potter’s words softened Hermione’s expression and firmly shut Weasley’s mouth. It was petty of him, he knew, but he didn’t like Potter defending him, of all things.  

“Oh, Harry, you should wash up,” Hermione said, noticing the drying blood on Harry’s arms.

“Oh. Right,” Potter replied, the blood on his arm had clearly been forgotten. He stood up, adding, “I agree with you, Hermione. We ought to find out more about this crystal thing.”

“Any ideas where we might find this Zabini bloke?” Weasley ventured.

“Budapest,” Draco and Hermione answered at the same time.

“So, I guess we’re still headed there anyway.”

So it seemed.

Draco watched Potter taking the horses’ reins as he left, saying something about them needing water as well. There was a lake not far from where they set camp, and Draco knew that was where Potter was headed. He waited for Hermione and Weasley to busy themselves with other things before following him.

He found Potter patting the back of one of the horses as it drank from the lake. The horse was drinking slowly, probably because the water was freezing.

He cleared his throat, which made Potter jump and turn around.

Part of him was not really sure why he was here, and the other part convinced itself it was a matter of settling scores. “I don’t need you to defend me.”

 “Where the hell did you come from!”

“The camp,” he replied nonchalantly.

Potter rolled his eyes. “Clever.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “So, I don’t need you to defend me.”

“No. You’d never need any help,” Potter teased. Before Draco could protest against the indignity of the teasing, Potter added, in the same tone, “Don’t worry, I’ll pretend to be blind next.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, you’re right,” Potter agreed easily. “The point is, you might have forgotten how to pronounce the words ‘thank you’.”

“What are you even—”

“See, they’re pronounced ‘thank you’, and not ‘stop defending me’. There’s a slight difference between the two,” he went on, “the wrong one has more ‘e’s.”

Draco could feel himself going hot. “How,” he started, though he wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

Potter didn’t wait for him to finish. “I thought about going in for a swim,” he said, turning sadly to the lake. “It was too bloody cold.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a wizard?” A royal one, to boot.

To Draco’s immense surprise, Potter chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said conspiratorially, “but I’m not very good.”

“But—” he stopped himself before he said anything stupid.

Potter sighed. “I never knew I was a wizard until about a month ago, when Ron and Hermione found me. I mean, I’d noticed strange things happened around me. That alone got me kicked out of the orphanage a little sooner than expected. But,” he admitted, “I was labelled an Ordinary when I was sixteen, so I was sure I had no magic at all.” He shrugged. “Guess they made a mistake. Ever heard of that happening? I mean, I suppose they make a lot of mistakes when it comes to accusing people. But not realising they haven’t got any magic in them? Ever heard of that?”

“No,” Draco answered. Then again, he didn’t know much about who had been accused and who hadn’t.

“Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he agreed and did not say how he also thought someone must have pulled a lot of strings for that single mistake.

“Anyway,” Potter continued, “there you have it. That’s what Hermione meant by more time. You know, for me to practise, though I doubt it’ll help much.”

As silence spread around them, Draco pondered this in his head. He hadn’t expected Potter to be useless at magic. The thought had never crossed his mind. He couldn’t help it, he felt guilty. He knew a lot of it was his fault. Knew that if Potter had grown up as he should’ve instead of as he did, he probably would have been a great wizard. James Potter had been formidable and Lily was the greatest witch he’d ever known. And here their son stood in front of him, his power far from that of his parents.

“So,” Potter said, “I told you a secret.”

Draco raised a quizzical brow. “Should I promise to take it to my grave?”

Potter shrugged. “I don’t care what you do with it.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I told you one of my secrets,” he repeated, “so you should tell me one of yours.”

“That implies you have more than one secret.”

“What can I say?” Potter teased. “I’m very interesting.”

Draco smiled despite himself. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but you volunteered your secret. I never struck a deal with you, so I owe you nothing.”

Potter’s disappointment showed on his face, though he took it gracefully, “Harsh, though I suppose that’s fair.”

Without thinking, moving on sheer impulse, Draco beckoned Potter forward with a finger. “This is not a secret,” he started, his eyes falling accidentally on Potter’s mouth, “it’s more of a… well, you’ll make of it what you will.” He chanced a glance up, meeting Potter’s eyes. “I love chocolate.”

For a moment, Potter’s eyes widened as he searched Draco’s face for a sign of something. Then the corners of his eyes crinkled, and he broke into hysterical laughter, and there was such sheer pleasure in it that even Draco found himself laughing.

Still chuckling, Potter said, “The way you said that! Oh, I thought you were going to confess to murder, you’re terrible!”

The laughter died in Draco’s chest so suddenly that it might as well have never been there. He didn’t know what his own face was showing, but he was sure it was nothing good. Not when he was breathless and choking on thin air.

“Draco?” Potter asked. “What is it?”

“I… I’m just tired,” Draco replied, voice thick. “I’d better get back now.”

“Wait, I’ll get the horses and—”

He squared his shoulders as best as he could and, without looking at Potter, said, “I’d rather be alone.”


	5. IV.

**IV.**

Though the worst of winter was probably behind them, setting off into the countryside when thick layers of snow still covered the ground was not particularly pleasant.

Despite their first agreement, they found themselves drifting in and out of towns whenever they found themselves near one on their way south. The countryside did not offer much by way of food, and it was hard to pass on a warm bed and bath. They would take up all sorts of jobs in exchange for food and a bed for the night. It’d been a long time since Draco had had to do so much manual labour, but he kept all his complaints and exhaustion to himself. After all, he was supposed to have come from a farm; he’d have to be used to the whole thing. However, while Draco kept his mouth shut, Weasley had no problem going on and on about everything and anything they found themselves doing. He had no idea how no one had yet throttled Weasley, but he was coming very close to taking matters into his own hands.

Hermione was short-tempered, too, but she bore hunger and exhaustion with a lot more grace than Weasley. And Potter? Potter might as well have been doing this his entire life, for he was quick on the uptake, was the first to find them jobs in a new town and easily the most adept at these menial tasks.

He heard Potter saying once to Hermione, “St. Petersburg isn’t very kind to orphans.” There was nothing resentful in his voice, just a mere explanation.

Draco could imagine Potter running around the streets of St Petersburg in the dead of winter. He’d seen many children do so, when he’d lived in the palace, their faces hungry, their fingers dirty. It was a testament to Potter’s character that he’d survived.

None of them liked these towns, but they were a treat in comparison to their alternative,  because they weren’t always lucky enough to run into towns so small that they hadn’t been marked on maps. The journey south took them through woods more often than not, and instead of a warm bed, they often slept on cold, hard ground in the middle of some forest or other.

Weasley had found a way to successfully clear the snow with his magic whenever they stopped walking for the day. Hermione was rather good at making flames. Potter was clearly not a very skilled wizard, and his mood worsened considerably the more time they spent between towns. And Draco, who could’ve built them entire cottages from tree trunks on his better days, had to force himself to pretend he was as useless as Potter.

This was a form of frustrating torture that he would’ve never imagined in another time. It pained him to see Hermione and Weasley try to teach Potter magic. Hermione was in charge of the theory behind spells and wrist movements, while Weasley had the harder job of surviving through a practice with Potter. Their voices were so loud as they recited spells, the movements of their hands so coarse. He himself couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to actually voice all his spells.

And Potter really was terrible. He had a talent for nothing but making things explode. His magic was all out of control, he had no focus, and Draco would be surprised to learn that Potter actually heard anything Hermione tried to explain.

An annoying voice inside his head told him this was not Potter’s fault, and it angered him continually. Every single time he witnessed yet another botched spell, he was angry. Angry Potter wasn’t up to the task. Angry Potter was this useless.

It’d been enough to almost drive him to take charge and teach Potter himself. But he couldn’t do that. All he could do was watch, and, on the fewer and fewer occasions when he asked to participate, pretend he was too tired or too useless to partake. He considered, during the long hours the others spent practising, just coming out and telling them just how much magic he knew. But he always ended talking himself out of it. Not only would that be suspicious, his magic might trigger Potter’s memory. And well, he certainly did not want that happening any time soon.

Moreover, the truth was, some days he didn’t even have to pretend to be tired. The longer they spent in woods, in between towns, the worse his body got. He needed fresh water for his bandaged and bleeding scars; he needed a bath and constant cleansing. And not having access to these made him dizzy with the beginnings of fever.

He insisted they camp near rivers and streams, but his body could only take so much. His scars were old, yet could barely keep them at bay. If he hadn’t woken up in that cave, his body would’ve died soon enough. He’d been ready to die for his mistake. But instead, he survived.

Sneaking away to streams and rivers in the dead of night became a routine. He was noiseless, a ghost across the woods. The moon was bright when he stripped off his clothes on the edge of the stream, making sure to wash these first before going in himself.

And then, for the first time, he heard a rustle behind the trees, then a voice, “Aren’t you cold?”

He was well aware that he was naked and that Potter was approaching fast. Next thing he knew, he was jumping into the freezing stream. He had to crouch so his shoulders remained underwater, so Potter wouldn’t see.

“For— You’ll freeze to death!” Potter exclaimed, and now he was on the edge of the water, his boots on Draco’s clothes.

“I was just washing those,” he said, pointing at the ground.

Potter had the decency to look sorry. “I’ll help you with these,” he said, bending down to pick up the pile.

Draco made a move to stop him, but it was too late, Potter had already seen the bandages. He frowned at them, as though he had never seen anything like them before.

“You still need these?”

“What do you think?” Draco nearly spat.

“I… I thought you were better.”

“I am. Now give those back,” he said, standing up.

It occurred to him that he’d made a colossal mistake the second Potter’s eyes widened.

Hiding was pointless. He took his coat from the floor, the only dry item of his clothing, and shrugged into it.

“You’re bleeding,” Potter said as Draco reached for the rest of his clothes.

“How observant.” Potter stretched out his hand, and Draco jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Your scars,” Potter started. “I thought… they should be healed by now.”

“Well, they haven’t.”

And they wouldn’t. They would continue to bleed until the day he died or a miracle happened. His bets weren’t on the miracle.

“But it’s been weeks! Does Hermione know? We have to find someone who can help.”

“No, and no.”

“But—”

“These aren’t regular scars,” Draco snapped. “You want to know a secret? A real one? These aren’t scars from being out in the snow, though any idiot could’ve told you that,” he said icily. “These are cursed and while I can do something to stop them from getting infected and starting new lives on my body, I can’t heal them.”

Potter seemed distinctly take aback, whether by the insult or by his confession, Draco couldn’t care less. “What happened?”

“How about you stop meddling in what does not concern you?” he retorted.

“Draco…”

“Leave it.”

There was pity in Potter’s eyes, and it almost knocked the breath right out of his chest. Warring against the memories that flooded him whenever he stared directly into Potter’s eyes, his head was spinning. He hated seeing that pity because it made them look so kind. Lily’s eyes had always seemed kind, too.

“Draco…?”

He felt a hand steadying him on his feet, and he nearly vomited.

“I said,” Draco gritted through his teeth, “don’t touch me.”

Potter stepped aside, and their eyes met again. He was searching for something in Draco’s face, but whether he found it or not, Draco didn’t know, as Potter quickly looked away.

“Let me help you,” Potter said.

“No.” His words were cutting. “Stay out of my business.”

There was silence for a moment. He began walking back to the camp but Potter’s words stopped him.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” There’s finally anger in Potter’s voice. “A country boy who speaks like count. A wizard who says he’s useless with spells, but he can work magic with a needle and a thread.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“That stream must be freezing, but you might as well have jumped in a warm bath.”

“You must be imagining things.”

“Am I? You were the one who suggested I use magic when we were by that lake, remember?”

“You think I’m lying? Prove it.”

He turned to leave, and Potter didn’t bother trying to hold him back this time.

 

“When I was boy,” Weasley said one day, stretching out on the ground, “I dreamed about going on adventures. Chasing dragons and saving damsels in distress.”

“Saving damsels in distress?” Hermione parroted.

“Yeah, that sort of thing,” Weasley replied, the sarcasm in Hermione’s voice flying over his head. “Adventures and riches,” he mused. “Who knew it was so boring?”

Potter and Hermione chuckled.

Winter was slowly giving way to the first days of spring as they sat down in yet another clearing in the middle of who knew where. It was the kind of bright day at the end of winter that made everything smell fresher, livelier.

He looked up and found Potter, still smiling, the sun caught in his dark hair. They hadn’t spoken since that last night other than to agree or disagree on where to go next and how to get there.

Potter either didn’t notice Draco’s gaze, or he pretended he didn’t. At any rate, whatever he was doing, he didn’t have to do it for long.

“I think we should practise Aguamenti today, Harry,” Hermione said.

Potter groaned.

Draco watched him fail at a series of spells, his face falling every time. If it was frustrating to watch, he knew it must have been torture to experience. There were a few things Potter was doing wrong. His vowels were short when they should’ve been long and his wrists tilted at the wrong angles. And there was something else. Draco suspected it had to do with Potter believing he could actually do it. Or his lack of believing.

He practised all morning, with the single result of managing to make the wrong log explode instead of just getting wet. Weasley suggested they stop for lunch, and they did. After, however, Potter left. Draco was all but done with the scraps they had managed to put together for this particular meal when he was up and gone.

“We should go after him,” Hermione said.

To the surprise of the other two, Draco volunteered for the task.

“You better bring him back in one piece,” Weasley warned.

“Anything else you’d like?” Draco asked sarcastically.

Whatever Weasley’s reply was, he couldn’t catch it as he walked away from the clearing and into the forest. He found Potter in no time, Potter being no genius at concealing himself or covering his tracks. He was practising again the spell he’d struggled with in the morning. He was concentrating hard on a log, but if the ashes next to his feet were anything to go by, practice was not any better after lunch.

“Perhaps if you really mean it,” Draco suggested.

Potter jumped. He waited a moment before turning around, giving no further sign that he’d been startled.

“Aren’t you supposed to be quite useless at this, too?”

“But if magic is like every other task, then you have to really mean it.”

“What would you know about it?” Potter muttered under his breath.

“I can work magic with a thread and a needle, remember?”

He could tell something stirred in Potter at that.

“And is that your enlightened suggestion?” Potter replied, bitter.

“It helped me,” Draco said, choosing his words carefully, “when I pictured myself doing the things I had trouble with. I imagined how it would feel doing them, how they would look and sound and smell. That did the trick half the time.”

It also hadn’t hurt that he’d had Dumbledore for a mentor, there to correct his stances and every flick of his wrists. But Aguamenti was a relatively simple spell.

“Water has no smell,” Potter said, unhelpfully.

“But a wet log sure does,” he countered.

“Right.” And without a warning, Potter flicked his wrist and recited the word. He was still saying it slightly wrong and his wrist movement was still too sharp instead of fluid like water, but the log in front of him did not explode. It darkened as a trickle of water ran down it. Potter stared at it, perplexed. “I… did it?”

Draco almost clapped. “It appears you did.”

Potter contemplated the log for another moment before saying, “I’m still mad at you.”

“If you ask me, the journey would lose all its appeal if we all suddenly liked each other.”

Potter broke into a smile. “Unappealing on top of boring?” he asked. “Can’t even bear the thought.” Then, “I’m sorry I called you liar.”

And there it was. Potter was so easy to understand, so simple and naïve. Draco couldn’t conjure up a single person he’d ever met who would forgive so readily, who would be willing to put things behind them with such ease. And when he thought about Potter’s life, he thought about the orphanage and the streets of St Petersburg, and he truly couldn’t understand how anyone could come out of his childhood like Potter had.

It was the sort of thing that was so far away from what he knew that it made him jealous and glad at the same. He imagined himself a few years from now and knew he would always be glad. Glad he got to be here. Glad he was able to see how differently a life could be lived.

“Did you call me a liar?” he said finally, making as though he was thinking really hard. “I don’t seem to recall that you did.”

“It was heavily implied.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

There was a moment when something flitted between them like a warm wave. But it went as soon as it had come, and Draco found himself saying, “We’d better go back before we give Weasley any reason for real concern.”

 

The Aguamenti breakthrough was apparently all the confidence Potter needed to start making some real progress in his practical magic. While he still lacked a certain finesse, Draco had to admit his progress was staggering. He had come so far that their days consisted less and less of practise and more of plotting and lazing around now that the days were becoming progressively nicer. And before they really knew it, they had found their way to a town a mere twenty-five miles from Budapest.

Between them and all the odd jobs they had taken up along the way, they had enough money for a decent room at an inn. They could’ve even had two rooms, but after what had happened on the Russian frontier, they all agreed it was best not to separate. They’d also agreed to never discuss any plans outside their room as further precaution.

“I think it’s time we talk about what to do about the officers,” Hermione ventured as they all turned in for their first night on a bed in days.

“You mean about how they have a description of me?” Potter said bluntly.

Apparently, the fact that they had all been skirting around that fact had not escaped Potter during their journey.

“Yes and no,” Hermione said. “Plenty of men could look like you.”

“It’s true, mate,” Weasley agreed. “I mean, unless the New Order commissioned your portrait, I really don’t see how they’d pick you out of a crowd.”

“Oh, I can just picture it,” Potter said. “My likeness travelling around under their arms. What frame do you think they’d use?”

This sent Weasley into a roar of laughter.

Hermione seemed very unimpressed. “Well, of course that is not going to happen. And yours wasn’t the only description they had, Harry. They knew we would be a woman and three men.”

Draco could not believe her boldness. Surely, she was not suggesting what he thought. But then she was blushing, and he just knew.

“Two couples are pretty standard,” she began. “We could say we’re there for a holiday and no one would think twice about it. We walk down the streets as two couples and no one bats an eye. I think we ought to take every precaution possible, and since four men is even more suspicious than our current demographics…”

“What, exactly are you suggesting, Hermione?”

“That is rather obvious, Weasley. She’s suggesting one of us crossdresses.” When Hermione blushed even deeper, Draco knew he was right in assuming the second part of her idea. “And since it would be even more suspicious if four single men showed up at court, her crossdressing is out of the question. Which means it’s up to one of us to step up to the plate.”

“What?” said Weasley in utter disbelief. “Hermione, tell him that’s not what you’re thinking. That’s absurd.”

But Hermione’s face had now reached a deep shade of purple.

“You can’t be serious,” interjected Potter. “I’m sure there must be other way.”

“Think about it, Harry,” Hermione said as she struggled against the sudden rush of blood to her face.

“I’m not doing it,” piped Weasley in an instant.

“Of course you won’t, Ron,” Hermione said, her tone laced with anger, “you’d make a rather ugly woman, wouldn’t you?” She all but spat the last of her sentence at him, which made Weasley turn as red as she herself had been mere seconds before.

“I-I—” Weasley spluttered, but nothing coherent ever came out of his mouth.

“Hermione,” Potter tried placatingly, “isn’t this a bit much? One of us would have to-to wear dresses and stuff all day. It’d be exhausting, no one would want to leave the house.”

“I’m glad you appreciate how hard it is to be lady. But I really do think this is what we should do.”

“So, you think I’m too ugly for the task,” Weasley said bitingly. “Who did you have in mind then?”

The purplish tone returned to Hermione’s face with alarming speed. She turned to Draco, who could not believe this was happening to him.

“Wouldn’t he,” Draco pointed at Potter, “make a more obvious choice, seeing how his is the actual description they have?” he asked before Hermione could answer Weasley.

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “But he wouldn’t, well, pass. Not if anyone looks closely.”

“If anyone looks closely, no one is going to pass,” Weasley said.

“Ron, that’s not what I meant. I mean.” She sighed in exasperation. “Look at Harry, he’s too… rough.”

He could not believe the indignity of this. “Are you calling me delicate?”

“No,” she said, “just. Well, you have delicate hands,” she finished lamely. Then added, “And let’s face it, you have more manners than these two put together, you’d have an easier time with…”

“The dresses and stuff,” Draco finished for her.

He gave both Weasley and Potter a onceover. The worst part of it was that Hermione had clearly thought this through and was so evidently right that he really had no counterargument with which to defend himself.

“So?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“If you ever tell anyone about this,” Draco started, but that was as far as he could get.

Weasley began roaring with laughter while Potter couldn’t help snickering. Hermione had the decency to appear apologetic.

“Thank you,” she said, and he knew she truly meant it.

She better, he thought.

 

Hermione was prepared for him to don his disguise, and the following day, she brought out a purple gown and petticoat. They had both kicked Weasley and Potter out of their room, sending them on meaningless errands whose only purpose was to keep them busy.

“I bought these yesterday,” she explained once Weasley and Potter were gone. “Took some bargaining, but I think they’ll be your size. And if not, I can always make some adjustments.”

Sighing, Draco took the gown she’d bought. It was different than what Hermione wore during their journey. Her skirts weren’t as ruffled or as elegant, and she always wore jackets instead of proper gowns. Though he supposed a lady who wasn’t on the run had to meet higher expectations.

Hoping against hope, he asked, “And is there other stuff?”

To his entire displeasure, Hermione produced a rather large collection of items: a chemise, a second, plainer petticoat, a stay, a pair of heeled shoes that matched the purple of the gown, a black hat, a very blond wig, something that looked like a large handkerchief and a box that he was almost scared to open.

“There’s usually more stuff,” Hermione explained. “But this should do for the journey to Budapest. And once we get there, we’ll have money to buy something nicer.”

“And how are you planning to come into enough money for that?”

“Things were bad before my parents were arrested,” she began. “So I took the precaution of sending ahead a manservant with a few things. He’d never be suspected of being a wizard, and I’ve already received his letter, letting me know it’s all in order.”

“What an excellent manservant,” Draco muttered.

“Yes, well, I figured we might need those things.”

“Thorough.”

Hermione gave him a look that she usually reserved for Weasley, halfway between fond and exasperated. “Do you need help with these?”

Draco gave everything on his bed a wary look. “Yes,” he resolved, picking up at the handkerchief. “What is this supposed to be?”

“A kerchief,” replied she, as though the word was as common as houses. Then her cheeks coloured as she said, “It’ll help hide your lack of… well, bosom.” She picked the chemise and began, “This is a shift, and it goes on first. Then your stockings —which reminds me, we’ll also have to get you nicer ones, can’t have you going around like—”

“And who’s going to go around looking up my skirt?” Draco interrupted.

“We’re not doing this halfway,” Hermione insisted. “Where was I? Oh yes, stockings then shoes.”

Her pause and pointed look indicated that she expected Draco to get a move on.

He, however, still had some queries. “And everything else on my bed?”

“For decency’s sake—”

“Now you’re worried about decency?”

“Well, I can’t very well help you into that shift, can I?”

“No, not if now we’re concerned about decency,” he said sarcastically.

“Stop being difficult and get on with this. You’ll definitely need help with everything else, but I do trust you to know how to get your shoes on.” This she said very fast.

It wouldn’t do to escalate the situation further, so without voicing any of his remaining concerns, he turned around. He was quick and efficient, not wanting Hermione to see his marred skin. In a matter of seconds, he was standing on unsteady feet, the heels of his shoes higher than he was used to.

“You can turn around now,” he said.

Hermione gave him an appraising look before reaching for the stay. “Now, the stay,” she said, draping the bodice across his back and pulling it tight around the front, “needs to be spiral laced, like this.”

Her hands moved with practised ease, pulling and tucking as she went. And even though she was fast, the process was painstakingly long and awkward as they stood too close to each other.

Eventually, she tied the lace into a neat bow, asking, “Is it too tight?” He opened his mouth, but she corrected herself, “Let me rephrase that, can you breathe?”

He could and nodded.

“Good. Next is the underpetticoat.”

Grabbing the plainer skirt, Hermione held it over his head. Obediently, Draco raised his hands and pulled the fabric down to his waist.

“Overpetticoat now,” she said, handing him the purple skirt that matched the gown.

He stepped into it and listened as Hermione explained how the tying of the skirt worked. Walking around him, she tied the back first, then the front. Both skirts were a bit too short, showing half of his ankles in what was surely a scandalous display.

“Nothing we can do about that now,” Hermione muttered as she ruffled the petticoats in a feeble attempt to make them appear longer. In the end, she was forced to give up and pray no one who crossed their paths stared at the ground. Sighing, she took the next item, the handkerchief, and said, “The kerchief.” Folding it into a triangle, she draped it around his neck. “This is tucked inside your petticoat, so…”

She gestured vaguely at him, and Draco rolled his eyes as he took the ends of the kerchief and tucked them away.

“Great,” Hermione ventured, gown in her hands. She smiled tentatively, then, “Almost done.”

“Lovely.”

She shook her head at him as she held the gown for him. The fabric was heavier than it looked, the sleeves too tight and the ruffled ends felt itchy on his skin.

“And now,” Hermione said, taking a set of pins from her own bed, “the pinning.”

Again, her hands moved rapidly as she stuck pin after pin to the many layers he was wearing. To her credit, he felt nothing but her tugging and pulling as she pinned both ends of the gown to his stay.

After an uncomfortably long quarter of an hour, Hermione took a couple of steps back to admire her handiwork.

“Good,” she said. “This looks better on you than I expected,” she added conversationally, though in Draco’s opinion, nothing was good.

He felt too stiff and unsteady, like a rigid log in a turbulent sea. He didn’t dare take a step, lest he fall right on his face.

Not even when Hermione, reaching for the enamel box, said, “Sit down, I’ll have to do your face,” did he consider moving.

She did not seem to notice how Draco was frozen on the spot when she placed a hand on his shoulder, motioning him to sit. And without further ado, she opened the box to reveal a collection of vials, tiny, glass boxes and a set of delicate, miniature tools.

“These are mine,” she explained, as some of the equipment had been clearly used before.

“Glad to know you considered them essential enough to travel with.”

Hermione shot him a murderous look. “For your information,” she began, “cosmetics can be of great help if you want a disguise.”

He said nothing but watched carefully as she dabbed a sponge on a pearly-white powder before applying it to his face. She worked mechanically and fast, moving from one vial or box to the next.

“And now,” she said, taking a step back as though admiring her creation, “the lips.”

He tried not to move as she painted his lips with a paste that was vaguely red. Soon, he was being helped into the blond wig. And then, just like that, he was done.

He hadn’t wanted to look in a mirror until it was all done, thinking he’d rather face the whole thing rather the sum of its parts. Gingerly, he walked to the other end of the room, where a body length mirror waited to give the verdict.

He had to touch his face as soon as he caught his reflection and the tip of his fingers came away covered white powder. He… looked very different, indeed.

“So?” Hermione asked behind him.

He turned around so fast that he almost fell. “These damned shoes,” he said under his breath, regaining his balance just in time. Squaring his shoulders, he replied, “I’m impressed.”

Hermione’s face broke into a smile. “Good,” she said offering him her arm to walk out.

 

He had not known what to expect from Weasley and Potter when they finally met up again for lunch. Whatever it had been, it certainly hadn’t been Weasley asking what Hermione’d done with Draco while Potter just stared, perplexed.

“That’s him, Ron,” he said, nudging in Draco’s direction.

“Nooo.”

“Yes, Weasley,” Draco said and the deepness of his voice must’ve startled the pair of them.

“Hermione,” Weasley began in a low voice, “did you use magic on him?”

“No, she didn’t,” Draco answered, a bit offended. “Now stop walking and tell us, did you manage to do anything useful?”

“We did,” answered Potter. “We are glad to tell the fine ladies of our party,” Potter’s smile was wide, “that we have a carriage for the journey to Budapest. It can leave today at six.”

“If you ever—” Draco began at the same time that Hermione exclaimed, “That’s fantastic!”

“Yes,” Weasley replied. “We had to sell the horses, and the carriage is nothing fancy, but it’ll be fine.”

“It’s a short trip,” Potter added.

“This is great news,” Hermione went on. “We should go upstairs and pack; we’ve only got a few hours before our carriage leaves. Come on.”

The plan had always been for Hermione to be Weasley’s wife. In an effort to further conceal their identities, they would go by Mr and Mrs Prewett, Weasley’s mother’s maiden name. This meant Draco was to be the new Mrs Potter. Except he was technically Mrs Black, since Potter’s last name was unusable and the other three were still pretending Potter was another regular bloke.

The worst part of the whole operation was how dreadfully useful it would be to pose as a woman. He needed to gather information, and this disguise would more than come in handy. However, it also meant staying with his three companions longer than he’d anticipated.

The truth was, he’d considered taking his leave as soon as they reached the last town. He was so close to Budapest, he was sure he could make it on his own from there. He told himself there just had been no opportunities to leave. They stuck to each other all the time. And then Hermione had provided him with a disguise that was remarkably sound.

He was uncomfortable the entire ride in the carriage, though that didn’t stop him from glaring daggers at Weasley every time that idiot dared look in his direction.

It was late when they finally arrived in Budapest, later still by the time they found their way to the address Weasley had written down. Eventually, the carriage came to a stop in front a three-story house with exquisite balconies and an even more ornamented front door.

A wave of cold air swooped inside as Weasley stepped out. Draco had politely waited for everyone to exit first, knowing he’d have a harder time figuring out how skirts worked as he descended. He was half-tempted to raise his dress above his head and be done with it, but their driver would certainly catch a glimpse of something rather odd.

Instead, he gathered as much of the dress as he could manage and gingerly placed a foot on the first step down. It was over more quickly than he’d anticipated, though that was mostly due to the fact that on his second step he managed to trip. He would’ve hit the ground face-first, if not for the helpful hand that steadied his steps.

Perhaps it was the fact that both of their hands were gloved, or perhaps it was something else, but when Draco looked up and saw it was Potter helping him to safe ground, he felt nothing but warmth.

There was a knowing smile on Potter’s face as he dropped Draco’s hand. “Careful, there,” he said. Then, like it was nothing but a silly game, he placed his hand on the small of Draco’s back. “So,” he began, voice low in Draco’s ear, “what shall I call you?”

“I’m afraid,” he started, his face inexplicable warm for this early in spring, “that, as far as my name goes, Miss Granger did not plan beyond ‘Mrs Black’.”

“Ah, she has left the decision up to you, then?”

Draco could feel Potter’s fingers softly guiding him as they walked toward the door. “A small kindness,” he replied.

Potter’s chuckle came as a warm breeze on his neck. “Do let me know if you need any help.”

Draco had no time to reply. Weasley had rung the bell, and an old woman was opening the door to let them in.

“We have been expecting you, Master Prewett,” the woman said. “Please, come in.”


	6. V.

**V.**

As couples, they shared adjoining bedrooms. Hermione’s led to Weasley’s, and Draco’s led to Potter’s. Frankly, it was a miracle they weren’t expected to actually share a room. The tour around the house had been short this late at night. The old woman, Madam Rosmerta, had shown each of them to their room and bid them goodnight with practised expediency.

Taking off his shoes, he walked toward the mirror. In the mirror, his cheeks were still red from the biting air outside and something else.

The gown was as hard to get off as it had been to get on. He took pleasure in the unpinning of the fabrics, letting everything sprawl to the floor. The lace on the stay gave him the most trouble, and he considered ripping it apart by force before reassessing the situation. Hermione would not be too impressed, he thought. In the end, it took a complicated twist of his fingers to undo the lace, and then the stay joined the gown, kerchief and petticoats on the floor, quickly followed by his stockings, shift and wig.

Moonlight lit his pale legs as he stepped away. In a corner, he found a cloth draped over an empty bowl that he filled with warm water. Soon, he was taking off everything Hermione had dabbed on his skin.

He took the cloth to the skin on his chest, where his wounds had started to bleed, and redness spread inside the bowl like silent smoke. It had been a while since he’d been allowed this much privacy. Even longer since he’d had the time to stop and take stock. It was odd seeing his body as it was now, broken.

Dumbledore had once told him something about scars, but he couldn’t remember the words now. Perhaps, if he closed his eyes…

 

Draco woke with a start. Someone was knocking on the door. Throwing off the sheets, he took three long strides towards the door before looking down at himself and realising he was not very presentable. Moreover, if that was Madam Rosmerta on the other side of the door, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

To his immense relief, he heard Hermione’s voice instead, “Can I come in?”

“A moment!” he called as he scanned the room for his old clothes.

He threw the door open a moment later and stopped dead on his tracks. 

Hermione was out of the dirty, old clothes she’d been wearing ever since they’d met. Instead, she wore a bright blue dress and her hair was pinned back in a tightly elegant bun. She looked younger, much younger than Draco had ever seen her.

“Morning!” Hermione said, voice as bright as her dress.

“Miss Granger,” Draco greeted, still somewhat stunned.

“Mrs Prewett,” Hermione corrected. “Though Ron swears up and down Madam Rosmerta can be trusted.”

“Well, if he swears it.”

“Right,” Hermione said, giving him a once-over. “At any rate, you shouldn’t be seen like… this.”

Draco took a deep breath. He’d known the time would come for him to stuff himself back into a dress, but he’d rather hoped he’d be given a day or two to rest.

“Indeed,” he agreed resentfully.

“Good. Because I think we ought to take advantage of the fact that no one knows we’re here to go buy something a little more fitting.”

“Oh, but I think that dress suits you just fine,” Draco teased. “Or hasn’t Mr Prewett told you so yet?”

It was delightful to see Hermione go bright red.

“No?” Draco prodded some more.

“Oh, please, you know Ron would never notice the colour of my dress.”

“Isn’t that a shame?”

“I don’t care,” Hermione said, though the rebellious tilt of her chin told a different story. “I’m here to make sure you don’t rip apart the only dress you’ve got before we go out to buy you a new one.”

His mood darkening suddenly, he stepped aside to let Hermione in. If his first dress had been a pain, he did not want to imagine what was about to come. All he knew was that it would, in all likelihood, bring about more pain of the stabbing and constricting sort.  

 

“What ever happened to decency’s sake?” he wondered aloud as Hermione pinned yet another gown to his chest.

They were in the large backroom of a fancy shop, Draco almost naked again, to his entire displeasure.

The current gown that was being forced upon him had the disadvantage of being both heavier and itchier than the past two he’d tried on. On the other hand, this was one of the fair few made for someone as tall as him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione began, stabbing a pin particularly hard into his stay. “Would you like me to call for the seamstress for your next fitting? Surely that would be more appropriate.”

Of course, that would not do. Not unless they wanted to start rumours about the Prewetts and their crossdressing friend.

“If your plan is to stab me to death, may I suggest a kitchen knife instead?” he replied after Hermione viciously pushed in another pin. “As equally mundane as a pin, yet I’d venture it would do the job rather faster.”

She stabbed his stay with a final pin. “All done.”

“So soon?” Draco asked sarcastically.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “You know what? Next time, I can pick up gowns for both of us, while you go and help Ron and Harry with their suits.”

“Oh, heavens, no!” Draco cried as he shuddered just picturing the scene. He didn’t know which of those two had worse taste.

Before Hermione could reply, however, someone cleared their throat on the other side of the curtain.

“Mrs Prewett?” the seamstress said. “Mrs Black? I have something that might work for you.”

“Come in,” Draco called in his highest possible voice.

The seamstress, Madam Malkin, stepped into the room carrying a large and ornate box. “This just arrived last week, straight from Paris,” she said, setting the box down on a chair.

Gingerly, she took an emerald green gown from the box. Having spent the better part of his day with Hermione signalling different styles and cuts, he knew as soon as he saw the gown that it was an exquisite robe à la française.

“This is the finest silk, with the sleeve at elbow-length and a lobed, triple cuff gathered into a ruched band. A square neckline, a bodice front panel with buttons, trimmed with furbelows edged in silk fly braid…”

She was still going on about silk and pockets, but Draco was no longer listening. The silk was soft and slippery when he held it in his hands, and the flower patterns on the fabric shone silver in the light. He had never seen anything quite like it, not even in his days as the Court’s Wizard.

“Would you like to try it?” Madam Malkin ventured. At Draco’s nod, she added, “I shall give you ladies some privacy, then.”

“This is…” Hermione started.

“Exquisite,” Draco finished for her. “Would you mind helping me?” he asked, smiling for the first time. “Again?”

“Of course.”

Draco did not twirl in the emerald green robe à la française, though he came very close to caving in to that particular urge. It was, by far, the best gown he’d tried on. Not too heavy, not itchy at all. And there was something so indescribably tasteful about it.

“And,” this he said to Hermione, “no scandalous showing of the ankles.”

Laughing, she said, “How decent.”

 

A single candle lit his room that night as he struggled to get out of the many layers Hermione’d recently purchased for him. He wondered distantly how exactly she was affording everything as he unpinned the gown. It would be impertinent to ask, he knew. Still, it was yet another reason to pay a visit to an old friend. After all, only one thing had become apparent: he needed far more information to move ahead.

“Darn it,” he cursed as he pricked himself with a pin. “This bloody gown and—”

His next words were muffled as his foot was caught in all the fabric. Stumbling, he fell hard on the floor. There was so much gown and so little of him that, between the layers and the wired hoop, he was all but drowning in fabric when the door swung open.

“What—” came Potter’s voice. He did not say more as he caught a glimpse of Draco on the floor.

“If you laugh,” Draco began, attempting to drape his petticoats back over his hoopskirt and failing miserably. “Oh, just help me stand!” he said, frustration getting the better of him.

Potter, to his great mortification, smiled gently as he offered both his hands to help Draco on his feet.

Knowing the bright red glow of his cheeks would show even under the poor light of a single candle, he made a feeble attempt at composure by smoothing his clothes as best as he could. Which was to say not much, since his fall had come right as he was in the middle of unpinning the first half of his gown.

“Thank you,” he said after a moment or two.

Potter’s voice came too close to him as he replied, “My pleasure.”

“Well, I think—”

“That looks complicated,” Potter interjected.

Draco blinked at him.

“The gown, I mean,” Potter explained, gesturing in Draco’s general direction.

At this, Draco raised a quizzical brow. “What, have you never seen a proper gown before?”

Taking a step forward, Potter replied, “Not this close up, no.”

“Ah.” Draco swallowed. “Well, do let Hermione know you’d like to go with her next time she goes shopping.” Grabbing a couple of the pins he’d discarded, he seriously considered redressing himself. “A fair word of warning,” he added, pulling the side of the gown he’d already unpinned tight across his chest. “It’s exhausting.”

He was concentrating very hard on not accidentally stabbing himself when he felt Potter’s hand on his elbow. “Are you going somewhere?” Potter asked

The pins dropped to the floor with high, almost inaudible noises. He would’ve bent down to pick them up, except Potter was now inches away.

“What?”

“Well, unless you’re planning a fancy midnight escape,” Potter replied, his hand reaching for the pin Draco had managed to place five seconds earlier, “I’m pretty certain you’re meant to be taking these off.” That particular side of the gown was holding on for dear life thanks to the pin Potter twirled in his fingers. When Potter unceremoniously removed it, the gown fell open again. His eyes were almost black when he asked, “Or were you not trying to get undressed when I came in?”

“I—” Draco began, entirely lost for word. All he could think was that the situation was preposterous. What negligence, what breach of personal space. “That is none of your business.”

But Potter did not move. Instead, he said, “I heard you last night, sounded like you needed help.”

“I don’t recall you coming to my rescue then,” Draco countered, chin rebelliously tilted. “No need for it now.”

“Maybe it’s not a matter of _need_ ,” Potter retorted, his fingers warm on the fabric of Draco’s gown.

The situation was preposterous, inadmissible, and yet… And yet the bottom of his stomach dropped as Potter’s fingers traced the side of the gown still pinned to his chest. And as they stood there in silence all he could think was, _What are we doing?_

“And if I still said no?” he ventured, breaking the silence.

Potter’s eyes shone black when he replied, “Then I’d go.”

Squaring his shoulders, Draco felt as though he was presenting his body to Potter when he finally agreed. “Very well then,” he said. “Help me.”

Potter smiled, and one by one the pins came loose. They made the same high, almost imperceptible noise as Potter dropped them to the floor until both sides of the gown were loose.

Shrugging it off with ease, the dress fell into a heap. Draco took off the kerchief himself before untying both sides of his overpetticoat, then his underpetticoat. The hoopskirt came next, clanking as it joined the rest of his clothes on the floor.

As Draco was about to step away from the mess, Potter offered him his hand. There was nothing in between their skins as Draco took what was kindly offered to him. A sharp pain shot through his insides, and for the first time, he really did need Potter there to steady himself.

“Draco?” Potter asked.

But Draco shook his head. “My hands are trembling.”

It was not a lie. His hands were cold and shaking, his heart drumming as they stood closer than ever now.

“That’s all right,” Potter replied, undoing the bow that tied the front of Draco’s stay. “I’ve got steady hands.”

Hooking his fingers on the ribbon, Potter pulled the spiral lacing, unbounding the stay. His fingers brushed against the fabric of Draco’s shift, warm as they moved up and up. Their bodies almost touched, Potter’s movements pulling them together, close enough to feel each other’s breaths. On the last set of eyelets, Potter grabbed the ribbon in his fist, tugging and tugging at the long tape until everything came loose and fell to the floor.

He stood naked but for his shift and stockings, while Potter was dressed in brand new clothes. They were too close and still not close enough. A breath away that could very well be an eternity between them. And then Draco looked up, right into those bright green eyes.

Fear mixed with anger in the pit of his stomach. And the longer he stared, the fastest everything crawled up into his throat. _What am I doing?_

Revolted, he turned on his heel.

“What is it?” Potter said behind him.

“You ought to leave.”

“But—”

“You said you’d go, didn’t you?”

“I did,” came Potter’s reply. There was a pause before he dropped something on the table by the window, saying, “I thought this might interest you.”

Potter left without another word, and the room felt suddenly empty without him in it. Draco didn’t rush to see what had been left on the table. In fact, he did not see it until the morning after, when sunlight streamed through the curtains he’d forgotten to close. Potter had left him a pamphlet: a little piece of advertisement for the new thermal baths downtown.

 

Plotting became a daily routine. They all agreed the first ball of the season would be their best chance to gather information. Through Weasley’s connection they managed to get themselves invited. However, since the ball wouldn’t take place a good three weeks down the road, Hermione took it upon herself to make contingency plans for contingency plans with regards to their cover.

“The picture is not as pretty as we’d hoped,” Weasley said over breakfast. “The New Order is threatening nations who help _us_ escape. There are rumours of a great army, terrible weapons.”

“And funding will not be a problem since they’ve been seizing wizarding assets for nearly a decade!” Hermione added angrily.

“Yes,” Weasley agreed. “Which means even abroad, no one is talking.”

“What about the people we were supposed to meet?” Potter asked. “Didn’t you all say wizards fled here?”

“And now they’ve gone somewhere else,” Weasley explained. “My source says they’ve been gone for weeks, no idea where.”

“I knew we would take too long,” Hermione began. “But it was too risky otherwise, especially when we’re—” she stopped herself, chancing a glance at Potter that did not escape Draco’s notice.

“Well, we had no choice, really,” Weasley reassured her. “I think our best bet is to wait for news here. I bet someone will contact us eventually.”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I don’t want to stay here too long if the New Order can reach this far. I mean, there’s a reason they left.”

“But we’re undercover,” Weasley replied.

“What about your source, Ron?” Potter asked. “Couldn’t they take a message to… everyone else?”

Weasley sank back into his chair, shaking his head. “No,” he replied. “First, no idea where everyone else is. Second, he’s already left. Going to south or something. Apparently, he’d been paid to wait until we got here, and now he’s gone, the coward.”

“And did he,” Draco, who had not said a word in the last ten minutes, started, “leave any other message?”

“No. Apparently, our lot didn’t trust him enough for that, and I can’t blame them. Guy was a real sleaze.”

“Then I agree with you,” Draco said. “If whomever you’re waiting for did not leave any more information, I think they’ll be on the lookout for us.”

“So, what do we do?” Hermione asked.

“Keep our heads down and pretend we’re here on holiday.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it takes,” Draco and Weasley answered at the same time.

Then Weasley added, “Listen, if we go on the road again, we’ll never find our lot. They’re very good at hiding, and chances are we would never find each other.”

“Mr Prewett,” Draco said, “for once in the time I’ve known you, you’re making remarkable sense.”

Weasley rolled his eyes at him.

“Fine,” Hermione said. “That’s the matter of _our_ lot settled.” She turned to Draco with sharp eyes. “What about your friend?”

“My friend?”

“Yes, the one who might know about that dagger.”

“Right,” he said. “He… will not be easy to find.”

“Any ideas where to start?”

“Unfortunately, he’s also rather skilled in the art of concealment. But I reckon, if we ask the right questions, we might just get the right answers.”

“And what would those questions be?”

He weighed his urgency to find Zabini against the potential disaster of anyone else getting to him before he did. Though, if Zabini could still be trusted to be more cautious than candid…

“We should start searching for apothecaries,” Draco said after a pause. “And then maybe apothecaries with… curious reputations. He has a gift for that sort of work.”

“So, weird apothecaries,” Weasley summed up. “Should be easy to find. I mean, it’s not like apothecaries have any sort of reputation for inhaling brain-killing fumes that might turn them into an odd sort.”

“Always so positive, aren’t you?” Draco quipped.

Weasley opened his mouth but Hermione beat him to it, “All right, at least it’s a start. And at any rate, I think we should be on the lookout for anything strange. Who knows, we might just get lucky and find someone who knows where the rest of wizards and witches are.”

“And in the meantime?” Potter asked.

“Well, you still have a lot of practising to do,” Hermione said at the same time that Potter groaned. “Now that we know we’ll be staying here for a while, I have some books you might find useful.”

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Weasley said. “In the meantime, we should rest! It’s not like there’ll be a vacation waiting for us when we meet up with everyone else. We might as well—”

“The New Order is gathering up an army, and I’m betting it’s not just for threats. Do you really want Harry unprepared when the time comes?”

At this, Weasley had the decency to look ashamed. He turned to Potter and said, “I’m sorry, mate, I tried.”

Taking this as his queue to leave, Draco stood. “If that would be all…”

“No,” Hermione replied. “I’ve been thinking about it, and you should join Harry.”

Draco froze. “Join him in what?”

“Practising, of course,” Hermione snapped. Then, in a more commanding tone, “Sit down. Ron, make sure no one can listen at the door.”

Scraping his chair, Weasley crossed the room to the door, made sure it was locked and muttered an incantation Draco could not quite catch.

“I think it’s time we told you something,” Hermione said seriously. “About the people we’re looking for.”

Absent-mindedly, Draco sat back down.

“We discussed this last night, and we all agreed,” she continued. “We can trust you.”

Draco barely nodded. “Thank you?”

“Hermione, I still don’t—” Weasley began at the same time Hermione said, “Shut up, Ron, even you agreed it’s ridiculous to hide this any longer.”

“I suppose,” Wealsey reluctantly admitted. “I guess he’ll find out eventually, so.” He gestured for Hermione to continue.

“Right,” Hermione said. “Well, here it is: we’re looking for the Revolution.”

Draco did not even have to pretend to be stunned. He was truly surprised they were actually telling him this. He barely managed a mild, “I see.”

“We can’t let the New Order take over our lives like this. It’s wrong, it’s—”

“It’s cruel,” Draco agreed.

“It _is_. And we’re going to do something about it. Which is why I think you ought to practise with Harry. We’re not asking you to join us, of course, we’d never.” At this point, she stretched out an arm to place her hand above Draco’s. “But things are about to get even worse, and I reckon you should be prepared.”

It was a kindness he knew he didn’t deserve. At all.

“I…” he began but could not find the words. For the first time, he truly regretted coming along on this journey. He regretted gaining a trust he’d betrayed from the start. Shaking his head, he lied, “I’ve told you, I’m terrible at magic.”

“I know you’re not,” Hermione said fiercely. “Just as I know Harry can be better at it than he is now.”

“I… appreciate you telling me this,” Draco replied carefully. “I really do. But I do not think me practising will do any of us any good.”

“But it will,” she insisted. “I know it will.”

“Maybe,” Draco said. “But more than my prowess at magic, we need to find my friend. And I think my time might be better spent on that.”

“But—”

“I think it’s his choice, Hermione,” Potter interjected.

Squeezing Hermione’s hand, Draco added, “I can take care of myself as I am, I promise.”

At last, Hermione looked defeated and she insisted no further.

“So,” Weasley said in an obvious attempt to cut the gloomy tension in the room. “What are our plans for today?”

Taking a deep breath, Draco answered, “Since it is information that we need, I suggest go start making friends.”


	7. VI.

**VI.**

As luck would have it, Weasley turned out to be really on point about apothecaries, and Draco spent the better part of his first week in the city futilely looking for any sign of Blaise Zabini. But, as Weasley had accurately pointed out, there was not a single apothecary who was not considered odd by someone or other. On top of that, his costume as a woman limited his inquiries, as he could not be seen alone too often, much less in the least savoury parts of the city. Since everyone else’s time was all but devoted to Harry’s practise, Draco was forced to do a great deal of sitting around and going grocery-shopping with the unobtrusive Madam Rosmerta.

The only thing that could be said about progress by the end of their first week was that Potter was getting rather better at controlling his magic. There was still a lot to be desired, but on the whole, at least he was no longer getting spells mixed up.

As far as making friends went, they had advanced very little. These times were not ideal for striking conversations with strangers. While they had managed to visit some of their neighbours, none of the visits had been really worthwhile. As far as Draco could tell, the only good that had come from these had been the benefit of taking a stroll.

And then there was the matter of himself and Potter. Hermione’s perfectionism meant she devoted a good hour of every day to forcing all of them to practise dancing. And where she excelled, the rest of them failed miserably. Potter and Weasley were too clumsy to know how to go about the whole thing, while Draco kept struggling with the fact that he had to let a useless Potter lead.

“No!” Hermione exclaimed, dropping Weasley’s hand. “You’re supposed to let Harry be in charge, Draco.”

Sighing, Draco nodded before he returned to his original spot. A minute later Potter had stepped on his foot, making Draco lose sight of the greater goal as he instinctively took back the lead. He was soon being scolded by Hermione again.

“It’s not my fault he has no idea what do!” Draco cried in his own defence.

“Oh, because you do, do you?” Weasley retorted.

“I do, actually.” He strode towards Hermione, gesturing for her to offer her hand.

Surprised as she obviously was, Hermione elegantly accepted his hand. He promptly led her on the first proper dance that room had seen since they began practising in it.

“You see?” Draco said after he and Hermione bowed to each other. “That’s how it’s done.”

Weasley had gone purple in the face while Potter had grown paler.

“And what’s wrong with you, now?” Draco asked Potter, who was quickly gaining greenish tones around his cheeks.

“I don’t see myself ever accomplishing anything like that,” Potter answered honestly. “Maybe we should just not dance at all.”

“Yes, and maybe we should shout out to the entire city that we just don’t belong!” replied Hermione sarcastically. “Just concentrate,” she said, levelling both him and Weasley with a stare. “Both of you.”

And again, they went about the room, and again, they failed at producing anything like a dance. Twenty minutes later, Hermione gave up, saying she’d seen some progress, though that was mostly an encouraging lie.

Dropping his gloves on a nearby table, Draco sank into an armchair. He could not see how the three of them were going to leave that ball with their dignities intact. The mere thought of it gave him a headache. Perhaps Potter was right after all.

“I’m sorry,” Potter said. “I’m awful at this, I’ve never done anything like it.”

“What, you’ve never been to a dance in your life?” When Potter shook his head, Draco had to suppress a groan. “Then you should probably practise more.”

“And you’d help?”

This time, Draco couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. “I hate Hermione sometimes,” he said by way of an answer. “Though she’s right, we ought to be able to pull this off, if we’re to have any chance at fitting in.”

Truth be told, Draco didn’t understand how Potter had the patience for all the practise that was required of him. It was one thing after another. If it had been him, Draco would’ve been ready to snap at a few people by the end of the day. But not Potter, who, if now visibly tired, still had the energy to find Draco in the afternoons for a spot of dancing about an empty room.

More and more, he found himself spending time alone with Potter. And it was hard not to notice how Potter kept finding ways of touching him, of walking far too close, of whispering in his ear. And worst of it all, most of the time, Draco found himself playing along without really meaning to. Leading Potter on a merry chase that would end in a crashing halt one of these days.  

It had come to the point where Potter saw fit to knock on the door dividing their two rooms every other night. To talk about their days, the food, the weather, everything and nothing truly real at the same time. Potter’s presence in his room became such a staple that he started wearing his most comfortable trousers and shirt to bed instead of sleeping bare naked, lest Potter showed up.

Potter was comfortable enough with barging into Draco’s personal space that one night he threw their common door open and threw a coat in Draco’s general direction.

“I want to show you something,” he said, excitement lighting up his face. “Come on, get the coat on, you’ll like this.”

He considered to coat thrown at and its implication of an outdoor activity in the dead of the night.

“What about our cover?”

“Oh, it’s the middle of the night,” Potter said airily. “No one’s going to see us, if we’re stealthy.”

Draco very much doubted Potter’s stealth abilities. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see! I’ve been planning this, come on.”

In his mind, he knew the only right thing to do was to politely decline. He should say he’s sleepy, not up for adventures or whatever it was Potter had planned. It seemed, however, that reasonable was not what he was up for that night.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging on the coat. “Can I at least get my shoes on?”

Rolling his eyes, Potter gestured at him to hurry up. After fishing his old boots from a trunk putting them on, he followed Potter out into the night.

 

The air was chilly as they walked the empty streets. It was while before they came within view of the City Park. And as they kept walking towards it, Draco knew exactly where they were going.

“Harry,” he whispered. “Harry, we can’t go there.”

Potter smiled at him. “The baths will be empty at this hour, and I found a way to sneak in.”

“You found a way to sneak in?” Draco parroted.

Potter turned to face him as he sped up his pace. Smirking, he said, “I was an orphan in St. Petersburg, I know how to sneak into places I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, of course you do,” Draco whispered. “Still, if anyone sees me, never mind them noticing I’m not a girl, they’ll see _me_.”

“No one will see, the baths are closed—”

“They’ll find out someone broke in—”

“I don’t know what your experiences with sneaking in are, but mine usually don’t end with me getting caught.”

“Usually?”

Potter stopped dead on his tracks. They had somehow made it to grounds right outside the bath house. Potter placed his finger above his lips, instructing Draco to be silent and follow him. They rounded the bath house until they reached a short gate that Potter promptly began to climb.

This was absurd, Draco told himself. There was no way he would follow, none at all.

“I promise you, this is safe,” Potter urged him.

Something in his voice made it impossible for Draco to say no, made it impossible to just walk away.

“All right, all right.” And with that, he, too, climbed the gate.

A few minutes later, they found a servants’ entrance.

Grinning at Draco, Potter said, “I’ve been practising this one.” Then, twirling his fingers, he whispered, “ _Alohomora_.”

The inside of the bath house was too dark to fully appreciate. Besides, Potter was leading them quickly to the thermal pools. And when they did eventually reached these, Draco found it hard to regret coming on this night trip.

Three main pools could be made out in the dark: a large squared one in the centre, and two half-circles at its sides.

“So?” Potter asked.

“Why did you do this?”

“I thought you might want to come, so I left the pamphlet on your table the other night. And when you didn’t, I figured you thought you couldn’t. What with our cover and all.”

“That is…” Draco said, swallowing hard. “Considerate.”

“Please, don’t sound that excited,” Potter replied.

Supressing a smile, he said, “Right.”

The pools were steaming with heat, and the warm water was calling to him. It would do him so good, he knew, he would feel so much better if he only sank in that water. Then he thought about Potter planning this, thought about Potter doing this for him, and he forced himself to stop.

The truth was, it was useless: deep down, he already knew why Potter had done it. Deep down, he already knew why he had agreed to come in the first place.

He glanced sideways at Potter once before stripping. Folding his clothes into a neat pile, he gingerly slid into the heat of the pools. He sank in slowly, letting his body get used to the temperature of the water.

The change in his body was almost immediate. He felt how the dull pain of his wounds eased as he let his body float around in the water.

Distantly, he heard Potter joining him in the pool, heard him swimming closer more than he could see him.

“So?” came Potter’s voice.

“Thank you,” Draco said sincerely. “This is… Thank you.”

“I’m glad you came.”

They swam in silence until his skin started to wrinkle and then some more. It was peaceful like this, only the sound of rippling water filling the quiet night air like a gentle, lulling spell.

 

It was surprisingly easy to fall into step with Potter when they made their way back a couple of hours later, their bodies fitting side by side. They bid each other goodnight as they reached the second-floor landing, Potter lingering a little longer than he should’ve, Draco letting him do so, for no good reason at all.

 

The days wore on with little progress made on anything that wasn’t Potter’s magic. Draco had managed to rule out over half the apothecaries in city for none of them had any connection to Zabini. None of them had received any news regarding the Revolution, and their neighbours remained as boring as they had been on their first visit. The only ray of hope came in the form of that first ball, which could not come soon enough.

Only Potter seemed to keep his high spirits, what with his magic finally flourishing into something halfway decent. He kept making things fly about the room when it was only the four of them and lighting candles with distinctively magical, blue flames.

His good mood also made him seek Draco out more and more. To chat, to have a spot of tea or to simply sit in silence. And Draco? Draco let him, let him do all of those things because, even though he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t force himself to say no.

He didn’t think it would matter, didn’t think it would come to anything, until two nights before the ball found them sitting in the poor light of Draco’s room. Potter was on a chair with his feet propped up on the bed, while Draco sat on the bed itself. He sat as himself, make up, wig and gown replaced by trousers and a plain shirt.

Draco was telling a story about an apple seller at the market, when Potter suddenly asked, “What about your family?”

He took a moment to reply before settling on, “Dead.”

“Oh.”

He shrugged, trying not to think about the circumstances that had led to that outcome, not when Potter was right in front of him.

“I suppose we have that in common,” Draco said. Then, before the conversation could veer into more dangerous territories, he pushed half-heartedly at Potter’s legs on his bed. “Get off, this is incredibly inappropriate.”

“Oh, really? And why’s that?”

“Well,” Draco said airily. “A man should not saunter into a _lady_ ’s room and place his limbs wherever he pleases.”

“Well, if the lady were single, that would surely be a cause for scandal. But aren’t you supposed to be my wife?” Potter teased. “Surely there’s an exception in this case.”

Smiling, Draco said, “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Besides,” Potter continued, “this is not exactly where I’d put my limbs if I had a choice.”

“Is that so?” Draco asked. The part of him that knew better knew he had to kick Potter out. The part of him that had let Potter inside said, “Where would you put them, then?”

Potter looked startled at first, but recovered soon enough. Grinning, he pushed off his chair, He stood tall as he leaned into Draco’s personal space.

“I’d put my knee here,” he said, placing his knee on Draco’s bed, his entire body bending forward. On instinct, Draco leaned back on his elbows as Potter went on, “I’d place a hand here.” His hand came to rest next to Draco’s arm. “And the other,” Potter added, “I’d place right here.”

Potter cupped Draco’s chin, tilting it up. He flinched despite himself, Potter’s touch still making him ache. Though this time, he could bear it. The truth was, over this past week, it had gotten easier to be around Potter, to be touched by him. It hurt, yes. Some curses would always hurt. But he could stand Potter’s touch now. Perhaps he was just so used to it. Perhaps not running around and finally resting were having an effect on him.

Whatever it was, he only flinched when Potter’s skin touched his. And for a moment, they were so close that Draco could not think to stop or look away. It would happen, then, he was sure, he couldn’t stop it, he didn’t want to stop it, he—

Potter pushed away first.

He held Draco’s gaze when he asked, “Why do you make that face when I touch you?”

“I…” Draco began, but there was nothing he could say, no way he could explain without explaining everything.

“Are you really that repulsed by me?” Potter continued. “Sometimes, I think not. Why do you let me in here, why do you talk to me like this, why do—” he stopped himself. “Do you hate me?”

And that was easy, so easy to answer, when it shouldn’t have been. It should have been a hard question; it should’ve been a conflicting one. At the very least, if the answer had to be easy, it should not have been what it was.

“No,” Draco answered truthfully. 

“Then why—”

“I can’t answer that.”

“You mean you don’t know or you can’t tell me?” Then, shaking his head, Potter added, “No, never mind, I’m tired. Goodnight.”

He left before Draco could make his case, and perhaps it was for the best. No, he thought as he stared at the closed door, there was no perhaps about it. This thing between them was better dead. There was no point in stoking a fire that would have to be put out sooner or later.

No, he thought as he got into bed, it was better like this.

 

Potter did not seek him out in the days leading up to the ball. He barely talked in Draco’s presence and would altogether ignore him if they ever found themselves in the same room alone. In fact, they did not exchange a single word until the night of the ball.

On the day of the ball, his hours were filled with primping activities that Hermione had scheduled for the both of them. Alarmed at the rather long list that the hairdresser recited upon her arrival to confirm duties and prices, Draco remained silent. The list included activities from hot wax to make-up and hair-styling that made his head spin as the hairdresser spread out her tools on a bench Hermione provided for her.

Needless to say, the day was long and painful. His legs were waxed, his face dabbed in powders and his hair pulled tight enough to hurt. His only consolation was the fact that his hair was now long enough to forgo the use of a wig. Past his shoulders and curling at the ends, his hair had never before been this long. It was dusk by the time Hermione sent the obliviated hairdresser out into the street with her pockets a good deal fuller than before.

Alone in his room, Draco took out the nicer boxes in his wardrobe and set everything on his bed first so he could fully appreciate the amount of silk involved. There were, of course, delicate silk stockings, brand new silk shift and underpetticoat. And the emerald green robe à la française. As much as he’d hated almost everything about that day, this was one part he was okay with.

By now, dressing up came as second nature to him. The silk of the stockings felt deliciously smooth on his waxed legs, the shift slid on his body like water. He took care to tie his garters properly, delicately, though no one would see them and he’d never really bothered so much before. His stay was also new, black with plum ribbon that slid easily into the eyelets of the stay. Pulling the ribbon tighter than he normally would, he tied it into a bow at the base. There would be no kerchief that night, and only pulling the stay too tight would give the impression there was something on his chest. The hoopskirt was not as much as pain as it usuallywas, and then he was tying his underpetticoat —silver to match the flower pattern the gown— around his waist.

The robe à la française came next. He was so used to this, that all he really noticed was the softness of the silk, the glitter of the silver pattern, the deep green of the fabric. Stepping into new shoes, he found he could balance his weight on the without much trouble. And then, just like that, he was ready to go.

He stepped in front of the mirror like he’d done on his first night in the house. But he did not see himself in the reflection. He saw a face from the past that made his insides churn. Dressed as he was, for the first time in ten years, he saw his mother staring back at him.


	8. VII.

**VII.**

The ballroom glittered under golden chandeliers as it bustled with the noise of chatter. He could feel eyes upon him, though none were as persistent as Potter’s, who had not stopped staring since Draco made his way downstairs back in the house. Pretending not to notice, he continued to turn about the room.

The resemblance to the balls he’d attended in the past was eerie. The fashions were only slightly different, and everything else was almost the same. He could catch the same sort of chatter about the charms of the countryside and the benefits of a good stroll out in the sun. The newest artist, this or that music piece. The endless, meaningless talks that he’d mocked ten years ago were still alive here and now.

His only consolation, he supposed, was that he’d be rather apt at fitting in.

He considered the whispering ones, the quiet ones and the loud ones, each with their one merit. In the end, he settled on a pair of whispering women in a corner, both of them wearing extravagant jewellery. Striding forwards, he held his head high and smiled.

“Forgive me,” Draco said delicately as he came to stand, “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I just couldn’t help noticing that necklace of yours. Such exquisite artistry.”

“Yes, it is!” replied the blond lady.

“Would you mind if I asked—”

“It’s a family heirloom, I’m afraid,” the lady answered. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” Draco said. “My husband and I just are here on a holiday.”

“Oh, how lovely,” the second lady said. “I’m always trying to get mine to take me places, but he never does. Pray do tell, what is your name, I’m surprised we’re only just meeting you.”

A painful flash on his own reflection hit him suddenly as he replied, “I’m Narcissa Black.”

“Well, we’re very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Black,” the blond lady said. “I’m Lavender Brown, and this is Mrs Padma Patil.”

Bowing to them, he said, “Do you mind if I take a seat? I’m afraid I’ve lost my husband to some business chatter. I cannot stand those things.”

“Oh dear, I know what you mean,” Padma Patil agreed. “It’s always this or that business venture. I tell you, I could drop dead in front of Mr Patil, and he wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh, Padma dear, you’re awful to that husband of yours!” Mrs Brown cried delighted.

“As though you are any better, Lavender, I’ve heard the things you say about poor Mr Brown.”

“Poor Mr Brown?” Mrs Brown quirked a single eyebrow at herself, a gesture that had them both bursting into giggles soon after.

“And what does your husband do, Mrs Black?” Mrs Patil asked after she and her friend had regained some composure.

“Oh, Mr Black dallies in many things,” Draco replied, just as they had all agreed back in the house. “The best explanation I have ever gotten from him is that he considers himself an investor.”

A little taken aback and evidently uncomfortable, Mrs Brown asked, “You mean like a merchant?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Draco replied, feigning equal disgust. “No, you see, he comes from—” he stopped himself as though he’d been about to say an impertinence. “No, I shouldn’t.”

“From what?” Mrs Patil prodded. “We wouldn’t dare tell anyone, would we?”

“Never,” Mrs Brown agreed.

“I really shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t want you to think we’re _merchants_.”

“Do not worry yourself, darling,” Mrs Brown cooed. “If you really can’t…” she gave her friend a curious look.

“Well, you promise not to tell?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” both ladies said in unison.

“You see,” Draco started, “Mr Black comes from very old money, and he’s currently looking for new investment projects.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he and his business partner are looking for new ventures outside…” Draco shook his head again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight, just talking and talking when I shouldn’t! It’s just it’s been so lonely here.”

“Oh, honey!” Mrs Brown exclaimed, grabbing a hold of Draco’s hand. “Well, you never have to worry about that again, Mrs Patil and I will make sure you never feel lonely again, won’t we?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs Patil agreed.

“You’re both too kind.”

“So, where did you say you were coming from?” Mrs Brown asked.

“I didn’t.” Draco looked around himself and lowered his voice. “Well, my husband and his partner are from Russia.”

Both ladies gasped. “Good lord,” Mrs Patil said.

“Things are rather difficult back there. The new government is seizing assets left and right, and really, we just had to leave until things settled down.”

“ _Russia_ ,” Mrs Brown repeated, still perplexed. “Oh, goodness.”

“It was dreadful,” Draco agreed.

He considered the two ladies in front of him. They were exchanging knowing looks, and Draco knew he’d done his job.

 

He left the two ladies after they each promised to have him over for tea over the next week. They told him where they lived, made sure to give him proper indications to get to each of their homes and made him swear up and down he’d call on them as soon as he had the chance, for they had dearly enjoyed his conversation and good manners, and he shouldn’t dare to stand them up. Just the goodbyes took a quarter of an hour, and though he was glad he’d managed two new acquaintances, he was even happier to leave their company.

He found Potter quite alone holding a flute of champagne, and, grabbing his free arm in an affectionate sort of way, he leaned in. Jumping, Potter nearly dropped his glass as Draco whispered, “So, I think I made friends with a couple of suitable ladies.”

“What are you—”

“Just, follow my lead,” Draco admonished. “And at least try to look like you’re having fun.”

The grimace Potter gave in return did not promise much on that front. Draco led them across the room to find Ron and Hermione immersed in a conversation about the trading of silk. He had no idea Hermione was so passionate on this subject, but was even more surprised to see that it was Weasley who was steering the conversation, Weasley who knew what he was actually talking about. He was also not the only one who’d noticed how much Weasley changed when he found himself in his element. Hermione was taking in all his confidence and her smile was so wide, Draco could not remember her ever looking quite like that.

Draco himself was happy just standing, listening and nodding where appropriate, an arm in Potter’s, while the other was busy exchanging empty champagne flutes for full ones whenever a waiter passed by. Downing another full glass, he patted Potter’s arm and laughed prettily at Weasley’s story.

“Oh, darling,” he said to Potter. “You never told me that!”

This made Potter’s head snap in Draco’s direction, his confusion evident on his face. In a stroke of inspiration to salvage the situation, Draco reached for an invisible something on Potter’s cheek, saying, “You have something on your face, dear.”

Potter’s cheeks went bright red at that, and Draco, afraid their cover would be blown, turned to everyone else and said, “Mr Black can be so shy.” Then, “Oh, waiter!” Taking yet another glass of champagne, Draco let the conversation carry on without him, though he didn’t let go of Potter’s arm.  

By the time a dance began, he was tipsy enough to require no prompting as he took Potter’s hand and dragged them both to where the other couples stood, waiting for the music to begin.

As soon as the music began, it became apparent that, despite the somewhat sick look of Potter’s face, their practise sessions had not been all in vain. They glided alongside of better dancers, but they were certainly not the worst in the room. Ron and Hermione seemed to be holding their own, and Draco would be very much mistaken if there wasn’t something different about those two tonight. Something that had slightly rotated and clicked just right.

Stepping on his foot, Potter reminded Draco of the task at hand. And then, as he concentrated on smiling, not losing his temper, and, more importantly, letting Potter lead, Draco looked up into Potter’s green eyes. At that moment, the dance slowed and the room around the two of them seemed to fade away. It was just the two of them for a second that stretched in time. Just them, dancing without speaking a single word. Just them, moving around each other, their eyes meeting as though nothing else mattered.

The spell broke as suddenly as it had started, the couples dispersing and rearranging themselves as some left and some joined in. Potter, it appeared, had exhausted his abilities for now, as he bowed and left. Draco hesitated for a moment before going right after him.

“What are you doing?” Draco called after him.

A new, more macabre song began to play as Draco followed Potter to the opposite end of the room. The music reverberated through the ballroom, loud and ominous, though it did not slow Potter down. His steps were quick as he made his way to a door, pushed it open without sparing a thought for Draco right behind him.

They walked through the deserted corridor outside the main hall and, just as they rounded the corner, Potter pushed him up against a wall. They were almost the same height, but the way Potter crowded him in gave Draco the distinct impression Potter was a towering presence over him. He couldn’t avoid Potter’s eyes from where he stood, and he was starting to feel the effects of the large amounts of champagne he’d been ingesting all night.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Potter muttered.

The macabre music that had started just before they’d left resonated well beyond the walls of the ballroom as they stood in perfect silence.

Fingers tingling with the alcohol that ran through his veins, Draco reached up to grab a hold of Potter’s embroidered lapel.

“I’m playing at,” he started, “that you’re mine tonight.” Their skins brushed when Draco moved in closer to whisper right in Potter’s ear, “Mine and mine alone.”

Potter almost jumped back. He searched for something on Draco’s face, and whether he found it or not, Draco couldn’t tell. All he knew was that a second later, Potter’s lips were smashing into his in kiss that ached as much as it was sweet.

Everything, from his skin to his bones, burned and stung as Potter held him in his tight embrace. But Draco could not make himself move away. He wanted this too much, had wanted it for a long time now, and maybe just tonight he could have this, maybe… He kissed Potter harder, biting his lip until neither of them could take it no more.

Potter’s forehead rested against his as they both gasped for air. “I’ve wanted that for so long,” Potter confessed, still panting. “I—”

“Don’t,” Draco said, heart drumming so loud in his ears it almost drowned out every other sound. “Don’t say a word. Just…” He trailed off as his eyes found Potter’s again.

There was something wholly different about them now, something he’d never seen in Lily Potter: naked, melting desire.

“Let’s just go,” Draco said before he could change his mind. “Let’s just find a carriage and go.”

“What about Ron and—”

“I’ll be darned if they aren’t too busy themselves tonight,” was Draco’s only reply as he grabbed a hold of Potter’s gloved hand and led them both outside.

 

They all but ran upstairs, hands find each other’s bodies as they went. The wooden floors creaked under their rushing feet as they stumbled into Draco’s room, but as soon as Draco stopped and took stock, the world stopped spinning.

They were really doing this, he thought as he stepped away from Potter. He did not have to speak for Potter to understand him. He took his right glove off first, then his left and watched as Potter did the same. He did not spare a second thought for the delicate silk that fell to the floor as he turned on his heel and made his way to the bowl of water that he kept by his bed. He heard Potter undress as he washed off the make up from his face before letting his hair down.

He felt Potter’s hands on his waist and turned around to look into his bright green eyes. All of a sudden, the world kicked back into the old rush that had possessed everything in it a few moments ago. Grabbing Potter’s neck, Draco kissed him hard despite the pain, kissed harder still to forget that ache that rushed through him when their skins met.

Panting against Potter’s lips, he said, “Undress me.”

It was only then, when Potter grinned as he took a step back, that Draco noticed just how many layers of clothing Potter had taken the liberty to leave on his floor. He stood only is his trousers and shirt as he started pulling out pins from Draco’s gown. One by one, they joined the mess on the floor as the gown, before tightly put together, started coming undone.

Potter freed Draco’s left side first, then his right, and Draco lost no time in shrugging the expensive gown off. The weight of it had not yet fallen from his shoulders when Potter began untying his overpetticoat, then the one underneath it, hoopskirt giving them both pause before Draco took matters upon himself and threw it above his head. And then he stood, in even less clothing than Potter himself.

He remembered them being in the exact same spot a couple of weeks before, Potter grabbing hold of the ribbon of his stay, Draco just standing as Potter pulled him fraction of inches closer. But it was different this time. He did not resist Potter’s pull, he did not fight or flinch when Potter’s lips touched his own as the stay slowly gave way. He couldn’t hear it as it fell, but the stay did come off just as Potter pushed him on the bed.

It was Draco’s turn now, and he did not waste time yanking at Potter’s trousers, undoing them so Potter could kick them off. Tugging at Draco’s stockings, Potter attempted to get rid of them but the silk did not budge. It wouldn’t, not with the garters Draco had tied above his knees earlier that day.

He helped Potter by lifting up his shift just far enough to reveal the laces tied around his knees. He felt Potter’s laugh on his skin as Potter hooked one of his legs over his shoulder to better work at the knots above Draco’s knee. Undoing Draco’s hard work, Potter threw the lace away before taking off the silk stocking to reveal Draco’s pale leg.

Potter’s gentle hand on his naked skin sent a new shock of pain up Draco’s spine, but he did his best not to react. He didn’t want Potter to leave. No, he wanted Potter in between his spread knees, wanted his weight above him, wanted his kiss on his lips. So he took in silence the pain on Potter’s hand running along the length of his calf, remained still as the tips of Potter’s ghosted over the sole of his foot as though it was Potter’s intention to touch every inch of exposed skin. Hooking Draco’s other leg over his free shoulder, Potter removed the second garter and stocking, his hand caressing Draco’s leg as he went.

Suddenly, Draco felt very bare, and thought it hurt to be touching this much of Potter, the sweetness of Potter’s body on top of his was enough to keep him going.

“I like you better like this,” Potter whispered against Draco’s lips, a hand tangled in Draco’ hair. “When you’re you.”

But the man Potter knew was a lie, too. Potter would never touch the real Draco, never mind with such tenderness, never mind with such blatant desire in his eyes. So Draco pulled Potter closer to make himself forget that person that Potter could now never know. Dropping his feet on the bed, he hauled Potter up and on top of him, pulling him so close he could feel Potter hard on his hip.

They grinded against each other, Potter pushing down as Draco thrusted up, quickly settling into a rhythm that robbed him of all breath. Potter’s wandering hands moved along his sides, switching between soft touches and hard presses that made him arch his back and throw his head against the headboard. Moving upwards, Potter caught the of Draco’s neck. He nuzzled Draco’s exposed throat until he found the place where Draco’s pulse beat the loudest and sank his teeth into it, sucking so hard Draco let out a moan.

“ _Harry_ ,” he panted as Potter held him by the throat.

Potter’s words tingled on his skin. “You hardly ever say my name.”

“Come up here,” Draco whispered, and Potter did. He reached in between their bodies, Potter’s shirt and his own shift had ridden so far up that there was nothing separating the lower half of their bodies. He grabbed a hold of Potter’s cock and his own, grip tight as he moved his hand up and down. Above him, Potter drew in a sharp breath, his head dropping. “I’ll say it,” Draco told him. “As many times as you want me to tonight.”

“Draco,” Potter replied breathless. “ _Fuck_.”

Their rhythm quickened, their breaths shortened, and Draco whispered Potter’s name over and over again like a spell he did not want to break. Because just for tonight, he kept thinking as Potter’s mouth found his, just for tonight he would allow himself to have this. To have Potter here, in his bed, right between his knees.


End file.
